Ocean Crossing
by Tulip Proudfoot
Summary: He felt uneasy about this voyage from the start. Frodo has regrets about the voyage into the West. Can Bilbo, Gandalf, Cirdan, Elrond and Galadriel help before they make landfall? Chapter 12 up.
1. Day Two at Sea: Tricked

Chapter One: Day Two at Sea: Tricked

He had felt uneasy about this voyage from the start. The idea certainly didn't have its origins in his own desires. No, not at all. He first learned of the scheme from Arwen. She mentioned to him the possibility of going to the Undying Lands while he, Sam and Pippin were recuperating in the Minas Tirith Houses of Healing. They never discussed it in front of Sam or Merry or Pippin. Certainly not. Sam would have vetoed the idea at once, and with great indignation. The Elf-Queen and Wizard were more subtle than that. The subject was broached at a private meeting Gandalf arranged between Arwen, Aragorn, and himself. That fateful meeting when she had graced him with the Evenstar.

Frodo's hand subconsciously rose to clutch at the elvish pendant secreted beneath his nightshirt. He never took the graceful pendant off, yet he also kept it conspicuously concealed. He told himself it was out of respect for Lord Elrond. But in the darkness of his shattered mind he acknowledged it was his own broken need to have something small and hard and metallic around his throat. Something nestled against his empty heart.

Gandalf, Arwen, and Aragorn had agreed amongst themselves that it was a proper and fit way of honoring the Ringbearer, but Frodo remained unconvinced. He really didn't want to leave the Shire. Leave his home and friends. Leave Middle Earth entirely. He desperately wanted to stay. He fully intended to stay. To pick up the shattered pieces of his past and start anew, freed at last from the ever-present specter of the Ring. But his desire seemed denied at every corner and from every direction.

Gandalf had finally gotten him to agree to go by pulling a sly trick on Frodo while on their trip back through Rivendell. The Wizard and Frodo were in Bilbo's quarters for a quiet smoke away from the others.

"You know, you're finally turning grey, Frodo," Bilbo chuckled as he handed the smoking brand to his nephew.

"About time too," Frodo chuckled, tasting the fragrant Longbottom Leaf in his mouth, but declining to inhale the smoke. Frodo's lungs were damaged by the ash and poisonous fumes surrounding Mount Doom, and smoking only exacerbated the problem. He still enjoyed the taste of pipeweed though, and puffed contentedly in the privacy of his uncle's chambers.

"Bilbo?" Gandalf leisurely puffed out a blue smoke ring and sent it to join its brothers in hovering above the elder hobbit's head. "Did you know that Elrond has commissioned a new grey ship from Cirdan?"

The ancient hobbit produced his own smoke ring and blew it directly at the Wizard, who idly changed it into the shape of a small pony and sent it galloping to prance over Frodo's head. "Has he now?" Bilbo replied. "Can't say as it really surprises me though. Elrond can't bear the thought of remaining in Middle Earth now that the Lady Arwen has chosen her path. I know he longs to see his wife again. I've been expecting him to leave ever since we heard the news of the wedding. Pity I couldn't join you all for that. I would have loved to seen Estel wed Undomiel. But my bones are in no shape for pony riding to far off places."

Bilbo produced another smoke ring and again aimed it towards the Wizard, who promptly turned it into a sheep and sent it skipping and making faint 'bahing' noises towards Frodo's head. Bilbo abruptly pointed his pipe at the Wizard. "You're going with Elrond, aren't you? You're finally leaving Middle Earth."

Gandalf slowly nodded. "Yes I am, old friend. My task here is finished. It is time to journey back to the Undying Lands and Valinor." Gandalf turned to Frodo and raised his eyebrows.

Frodo couldn't bring himself to say anything. He suddenly felt ashamed. Ashamed at leaving his dear Uncle behind to go with the Elves to the Undying Lands, when it was Bilbo who was really the one who saved Middle Earth. Bilbo's unselfish act of sparing Gollum so long ago deep under the Misty Mountains.

The Wizard turned back to Bilbo. "Elrond is having a special cabin built on the ship. A hobbit-sized cabin." He winked at his friend. "The Ringbearers have been granted special passage on his ship to Tol Eressea. You and Frodo are invited to make the journey with us."

"Mmmm... Me?" Bilbo stammered in his excitement. "Are you serious? Me? And Frodo? Going to Tol Eressea? Oh my goodness! Oh! What an honor!"

Frodo faintly shook his head at Gandalf, but decided against pressing the issue. Bilbo's wrinkled face beamed as he rose from his easy chair, hobbled over, shooed away the smoke menagerie from atop Frodo's head, and kissed his nephew's curls.

"Just think of it, Frodo, my lad," the ancient hobbit prattled as he limped over to the fireplace and put another log onto the blaze. "Think of the honor! Why… why … no mortal has ever set eyes on Tol Eressea, much less been invited to live with the Elves! Oh, Frodo, this is magnificent! Magnanimous in a way I can't begin to describe! Better than dragons and barrels and gold by far. Oh, I do hope I live long enough to go with you all. What an adventure this will be, eh?"

"Uncle Bilbo…" Frodo started, but was interrupted.

"We must go," Bilbo said, coming back to his chair and re-wrapping his legs with a blanket. "We simply must. We can't disappoint the Eldar, you know."

"Not a word to the others," Gandalf cautioned, pointing his long curved ceramic pipe at Bilbo. "Must not upset Sam."

"Oh," Bilbo replied, "quite right you are. Frodo-lad, we'll keep this one secret." Bilbo smiled and winked, then resumed smoking.

"Yes, Uncle." Frodo smiled, leaned over, and patted his elderly cousin's arthritic knee. Frodo looked askance at Gandalf, whose eyebrows arched to the ceiling in a 'what else could I have done?' look. Frodo again patted Bilbo on the knees. "When you are ready to board the ships, I will be there," Frodo replied, never thinking that Bilbo would actually live long enough to make good on Gandalf's plan. The Wizard had managed, once again, to get his way.

A couple of years later, there was another, more compelling reason for Frodo to take the great grey swan ship.

He was dying. Of that, he was certain. His once-robust health had carried him through the wounding at Weathertop, the cold hardships of the Misty Mountains, and the dreadful dark of Moria. The attacks along the great River Anduin and the razor-sharp maze of the Emyn Muil. Through the horrible specters of the Dead Marshes and the long, hungry march from the Black Gates to Ithilien. Up the Endless Stairs, through Shelob's poisons and the tortures of Cirith Ungol. Even through the parched plains of Gorgoroth and the final ordeal of the fiery Sammath Naur itself.

But Frodo had given his all for the Ring, and there was nothing left. No reserves of strength from which to draw. No place from which to find healing and rest. A dark, black hole where once a joyful song dwelt now filled his being, even as he retreated into the safe comfort of Bag End. He was spent – utterly spent – and not even the verdant Shire and the all-encompassing love of dearest Sam and ever-patient Rosie could replenish the bitter dryness of his hollow soul.

He was dying. He knew it back in Minas Tirith even as Aragorn and the healers frantically tended his wounds and burned lungs and feet, forced liquids and soft foods into his starved and desiccated body, and frequently drugged him into artificial slumber. He revived each day with the realization that he was recovering; yet paradoxically, he was still dying. And it would be painful and slow.

In Rivendell, Elrond privately confirmed to him that there was no medicine or procedure in Middle Earth that could permanently remove the poisons from his battered body and shattered mind. Poisons of spider and blade and months of carrying the evil about his neck. Evil that had seeped into the minute cracks in his mind and carved a cunning Ring-shaped scar there, as surely as his body carried a hard, white knife scar from the Morgul blade. And each passing day was as the turning of an acid-covered blade in the scars; the wasting away of a little piece of himself. Soon there would be nothing left except a brittle, cancerous husk infecting those around him.

'How ironic,' Frodo mused late one night in the privacy of his bedroom at Bag End. 'I am a small, reverse mirror of Sauron. I set out to rid the world of a great Evil, only to learn that I could no more destroy Evil than Sauron could destroy Good. I cannot purge myself of the Shadow no more than I can undo the scars I carry on my body. I will carry this burden until I at last succumb to it. Then, and only then, will Sauron's power be fully dispersed.'

Ironically, Arwen's unselfish offer of her place in the Undying Lands was his last chance for relief. Relief or else the ultimate release. Either way, he felt as if he didn't really deserve to go. After all, the Undying Lands were reserved for the Eldar. There was a permanent and irrevocable ban set in place by the Valar themselves against mortals stepping foot upon the blessed shores. Tol Eressea belonged to the first born; not to him. Not to someone who still carried the Evil of the Dark Lord within his very heart.

He did not belong on this silver and grey swan ship. Frodo laid his head upon the soft feather pillows of his upper bunk in the cabin he shared with Bilbo and tried to find sleep in the gentle rocking of the ship. Bilbo had fallen asleep many hours ago on the bunk below. Frodo turned over and tried again to still his restlessness.

He did not belong here. Frodo's broken heart knew it, and his troubled dreams confirmed it.


	2. Day Three at Sea: Dreams

Chapter 2: Day Three at Sea: Dreams

Dreams. Ah. He had always experienced peculiar dreams. Dreams unlike other hobbits' dreams. Dreams of places he had never been. Objects he had never seen. Strange, foreign sounds and smells. People he had never met, yet who seemed to know him. Actions he had never witnessed, yet accepted as real.

The dreams started when he was young and still living with his Brandybuck relations at Brandy Hall. Once he tried to share a particularly strange and somewhat frightening dream with Aunt Esmeralda.

"Gracious, you silly Baggins," Auntie Esme frowned. "Elves talking to you in the middle of the night? And calling you Elf-friend?"

"That's right, Auntie Esme," the youngster said. "They were speaking in Elvish too. And I could understand them!"

"Gracious me," she rolled her eyes. "No self-respecting hobbit speaks Elvish."

"Uncle Bilbo does," Frodo defiantly replied, crossing his small arms.

Esmeralda pinched his ear. "Frodo Baggins! You will not take that tone of voice with me, fauntling!" She shook him slightly by the ear.

"Ow!"

"Now you listen to me, Frodo," Esmeralda released him but shook her finger under his nose. "Your Uncle Bilbo Baggins is not the sort of person we want you admiring, even if he is filthy rich with gold. He's from Hobbiton and everyone knows folk 'round Hobbiton are a bit queer. You're mostly Brandybuck and while you are here in the Hall under my care, you will conduct yourself like a Brandybuck!"

"But you're from near Hobbiton, Auntie Esme," Frodo stammered in confusion. "I read our family trees in one of the books in the library. Aren't we both related to Uncle Bilbo?"

"Frodo, I swear, you read too many books. Book learning is well and good for some, but not for the likes of one so impressionable as you. Don't know why your poor mother insisted you learn letters in the first place. Book learning is dangerous business best left to those that know better." The hobbitess snorted. "Now let me set you straight. I am the daughter of the Thain from Tookland and married to the son of the Master of the Hall. And you…" she pointed at him, "…are related to me by both blood and marriage. I am your guardian and you WILL do as I say, and without any back talk."

"Yes ma'am," Frodo murmured, looking at the rug.

"I don't want to hear any more nonsense about dreams or Elves or dragons or whatnot," she lectured. "I don't care to hear you mention Bilbo Baggins and I certainly don't want you reading any more of his stupid adventurous fables and scandalous tall tales. Do you understand me, Frodo?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am,' he replied.

"Good. Now go get dressed and over to Mr. Shortdigs's place. You're going to be late already. You've already missed first breakfast."

Frodo could hear her muttering as he returned to his room to prepare himself for a day's work at Mr. Shortdig's studio. He hated his current job of whittling buttons from deer antlers. He would have much preferred to spend the day in the cool library, or out with one of the other children in the fields surrounding the Hall. But Aunt Esme was determined he learn a proper respectable trade.

"Don't know why we have a copy of that stupid book in the library anyway," Esmeralda muttered as she walked away. "Frightens the children and puts nonsense in their heads. Dreaming he could talk to Elves… Humph…."

That was when he started his journal. A place to keep his dreams. Write them down just in case they meant something. Ironically, he got the idea from his Uncle Bilbo. After all, Bilbo Baggins had written down his adventures. Why not Frodo Baggins? That was how it began.

He thought it would be different when he finally moved in with his beloved Uncle Bilbo at Bag End. Frodo tried to share his strange dreams with his closest friends; Merry, Folco, Fatty and Sam. But Frodo stopped telling the dreams to his hobbit acquaintances after too many rolled eyes and sly 'queer Baggins' nods of the head when they went to the Green Dragon or the Ivy Bush.

Bilbo encouraged him to continue to record the dreams in his journal. But Frodo was somehow reluctant to fully share the dreams with his Uncle. Some nagging doubt always caused him to close his mouth whenever Bilbo asked for more details.

'Probably some old left-over notion of making Auntie Esme mad,' Frodo thought to himself. But he never shared the dreams with anyone ever again. Anyone, except Sam. Sam never laughed or made fun of him. The young gardener was keenly interested in anything to do with Elves, even if it was just queer young Master Frodo's dreams.

The dreams had proven true, as Frodo found out later. The most memorable dreams, the ones he privately called the 'important ones,' had come true either during the Quest, or now. Now that he was on the grey swan ship sailing to Tol Eressea.

Last month the Sea sounded and appeared exactly as he had dreamed it some twenty years prior. The grey tower on a hill overlooking a harbor; it was the Grey Havens down to the stonework, quays, and ropes. He had become somewhat nonplussed at seeing his premonitions shimmer into reality at the turn of a corner or under the light of a new moon. But the smell of the Sea and the glimmer of the White Elvish Towers in the clear starlight had rekindled his uneasiness at his peculiar dreams.

They were three days at sea. And now he experienced nightmares every time he closed his eyes in slumber.

Frodo was afraid of one in particular that had yet to be fulfilled. He could not tell if this was one of those 'important ones,' as in old, or one of the new nightmares of reliving events from the Quest. It had elements of both.

'Perhaps I should tell Gandalf about this dream,' he wondered after seeing the Wizard above decks comfortably seated on a polished wooden deck chair with a pearly blue blanket wrapped about his outstretched legs. The great white horse, Shadowfax, stood nearby, contentedly munching hay. The Wizard was asleep.

'Or maybe Lord Elrond could help me, since he is also gifted with foresight,' Frodo mused. The tall, dark-haired Elf-lord stood back near the helmsman observing a complicated-looking nautical instrument set inside a bowl of water. 'Gifted, or perhaps it is cursed with foresight. I best not bring that up.'

Frodo seated himself alone amongst the coils of silky rope stored on deck in the forecastle. The only person he had ever trusted with his dreams was Sam, and now Sam was left behind.

Frodo sighed and smiled slightly. Sam would be finding it right about now. Now that he was safe home back in Bag End and was going through the contents of Frodo's desk in the study. Frodo had left it with Rosie before he and Sam had made the final journey to the Grey Havens. Rose promised she would place it on Frodo's desk for Sam to find.

His dream journal. It even included this last troubling dream. Sam would find the right places to insert all the dreams inside the Red Book. Sam was going to finish the Red Book, and add his part to the tale as well.

Frodo smiled. Let the dreams come. They were safe with Sam now.


	3. Day Twelve: Fishing

Chapter 3: Day Twelve: Fishing

The swan ship bound for Tol Eressea had been at sea for twelve days. Neither crew nor passengers knew how long they would remain there before finding the Undying Lands.

"If we ever find them," Frodo quietly grumbled.

"Oh, we shall find the path," Gandalf steadfastly replied. "Lord Cirdan has built many ships for the voyages to the Uttermost West. This ship is probably his best. Oh! I think there is something on my line."

"Reel it in and let's see," Bilbo said. "I'll get the net." Bilbo and Frodo adapted their Shire clothing for life at sea, shortening their waistcoats so that excess fabric did not become ensnared in the numerous lines, pulleys, blocks and ropes above deck. Gandalf, however, maintained his white robes intact, even when on active duty.

The Wizard and the two hobbits were in charge of the three trawling lines running along the starboard side out in the boat's wake. Bilbo grabbed a small net lashed to a hoop and pole. It was almost too large for the diminutive hobbit to handle. An officer of the ship clad only in a loose shirt and graceful knee-length pants ran over to help.

"Thank you very kindly, Caragil," Bilbo smiled as he directed the dark-haired Elf over to where the Wizard was hauling in the fishing line and becoming more and more soaked doing so.

"Another one of those blue fins with the sword on its head," Frodo said, watching the Wizard, Elf and hobbit attempt to snare the large fighting fish. "Watch out! The net will tear!" Caragil grabbed a nearby hook and managed to harpoon the oversized fish just as the net ripped, sending Bilbo backwards onto the deck with a resounding thunk. The Elf hauled the bloody fish and extra line past a sputtering Gandalf and onto the decking, spearing the heavy iron hook through the fish and into the wooden deck, then nimbly leaping out of the way to keep the thrashing fish from injuring himself in its death throes. Blood and saltwater splashed across the sanded wood and onto the Wizard's pristine robes.

"Bah!" Gandalf dropped the line and snorted in disgust as crimson and yellow fish guts spattered his clothes.

Frodo couldn't help himself and started giggling. "Gandalf the Messy," he chortled.

"No guts, no glory," the Wizard laughed. "I need some help cleaning up."

Frodo quickly turned and grabbed something large. "As you wish," he said. Gandalf barely had time to turn away as a bucket full of water hit him squarely across his backside.

"Well done!" Bilbo laughed, hauling the damaged net aboard ship. "Well done! He asked for it! I heard it! Well done, Frodo! Ah! What a supper! Is it dead? Let's take it to the galley, eh?"

Caragil shouldered the massive fish and followed the elderly hobbit down the steep stairway leading to the below decks, leaving an astounded soaking wet Wizard with a long, loose and quite smelly coil of fishing line at his feet. Frodo was on his hands and knees on the deck in a fit of laughter, holding onto a dripping empty bucket.

"Frodo Baggins!" Gandalf sputtered, "It's a good thing I like you!"

Frodo giggled. "You asked for it! I have witnesses!"

"Indeed, he did. But it is decidedly unwise to test an Istari's friendship." A rather stately, elegant female voice floated down from on top the forecastle's roof. Galadriel stood upon the upper deck, her long limbs clad in the same everyday work clothes favored by the crew, and her glorious golden hair bound into an elaborate braid. She looked quite young and lithesome, and rather androgynous to Frodo's eyes, unused to seeing a female garbed in male clothing. He blushed at the slight reprimand, and also at catching a glimpse of her naked calves and feet. He always felt rather shy in the Elf-Queen's presence, and now that they were all in close quarters on the ship, his bashfulness before her could not be avoided.

"I…I apologize, Gandalf," he stammered out. "And to you, Lady." He stood and began to coil up the fishing line.

"No apology needed, Frodo," Gandalf quietly laughed. "I really enjoy hobbits, you know. I still don't quite understand them, but then again, I've only been studying them for a thousand years now."

Frodo stood aghast. Gandalf's robes were sparkling white; as fresh as the day when Frodo first awoke from his tribulations in Mordor and beheld the reincarnate Gandalf the White. "Uh…" was all he could manage before he noticed the full bucket in Gandalf's hands. A virtual wall of water smote him directly in the chest, sending him butt first into his own empty bucket.

"Turn about is fair play, or so they say in the Shire," Gandalf chuckled. "If there is one thing I've learned from hobbits, it is the fine art of jesting."

Frodo got up and stood there, dripping from head to toe, his clothes clinging to his lean torso, groin and legs in a manner most ungentlemanly-like. Light and bright female laughter floated down from the forecastle. Without hesitation both hobbit and Wizard simultaneously picked up magically refilled buckets, and hit the Elf-Queen squarely mid-laugh with fresh water.

"Wha?" she sputtered as the water ran in rivers across the roof.

'Doesn't look androgynous now,' Frodo smugly thought. He couldn't help but admire the curves. 'Oh, heavens. That was an ungracious thought!'

The entire aboard deck crew and passengers roared in laughter. After a second, Galadriel also laughed. Lord Cirdan paused in his calculations inside his cabin to see what was causing such delight. Upon seeing the dripping hobbit and Elf-Queen, he simply frowned, shook his head, and returned to his work inside.


	4. Day 8: The World Below

Chapter Four: Day Eight: The World Below

"Oh, Frodo-lad. Come over here." Bilbo beaconed Frodo over to the helm. "I've been learning about tacking into the wind. Fascinating!" The helmsman smiled and gave Bilbo the long handled wooden double helm. "See! We can sail West even when the breeze isn't behind us. Fascinating stuff, this tacking! Keeps the crew on their toes though. Quite a lot of work."

Frodo smiled. "You're taking to the Sea like a Brandybuck takes to ale, Uncle Bilbo. If I didn't know any better I would claim you were part-Elvish."

"Nonsense," the older hobbit grumbled. "But if I had known how much I enjoyed living on a boat, I would have taken the journey a long time ago."

"Ship," the helmsman corrected. "This vessel is a ship, not a boat."

"You weren't invited a long time ago," Frodo gently reminded his uncle.

"Oh, mere formality," Bilbo huffed and dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. The Elf smiled and winked at Frodo, who smiled back. Bilbo had taken an active interest in everything to do with running the vessel. He quite enjoyed life aboard ship, and it agreed with him as well.

The two hobbits shared a special-built cabin below decks at the front of the ship, tucked into an odd angle. Frodo had the upper bunk, deferring to his elderly Uncle's stiffness, aches, and pains of advanced age. Bilbo was grateful at first for the easy-to-reach lower bunk. But Bilbo was awaking each morning with fewer and fewer complaints.

"You look well rested, Uncle," Frodo said over breakfast on day eight.

"I feel well rested," Bilbo smiled. "I haven't slept this well in decades. I had no idea traveling in a ship would be so pleasant. Why, I'm sleeping all the way through the night, which is something I haven't done in years either!" Bilbo launched into a plate of scrambled eggs and fish. "Can't say the same for you though."

"Sorry about that," Frodo sighed and sipped his tea. "I would move, but there isn't another bunk available. Guess I could sleep with Shadowfax."

"Oh, silly boy," Bilbo said, "that's not what I meant, and you know it. I just worry about your nightmares. Would you like to tell me about them? Maybe talking will dispel them." Bilbo reached for another piece of toast. His appetite had returned like in his mid-nineties, much to his delight. Food smelled and tasted SO good now.

"Nightmares discussed over breakfast?" Frodo countered. "I think not. Perhaps later after we've made landfall." Frodo was feeling somewhat better, though he tried to not dwell upon such things for fear that the feelings might be temporary. The coldness in his left shoulder seemed somewhat lessened. In the innermost recesses of his battered and burned soul, a spark of hope had returned.

'Perhaps Arwen was right after all,' he thought and unconsciously fingered the Evenstar pendant which took the place of the Ring about his heck. A quickening chill breeze brought the scent of fresh rain.

"Please excuse me." Frodo stood up. "I'm going above." Frodo made a detour back to his cabin and grabbed his travel-worn Lothlorien cloak before climbing the stairs leading to the main deck.

Contrary to what he believed prior to boarding, life aboard a sea-going vessel was anything but boring. Each day brought fresh, new surprises to delight the senses. Or scare him out of his wits! The first time he had seen the Elvish crew scampering up the main mast to secure the sails against a sudden squall, Frodo had almost left finger marks gripping the solid wooden railing in concern. But the nimble crew was quite comfortable at heights, in cold slippery weather, and aboard a violently rocking ship.

Frodo and Bilbo watched the workings of the crew throughout the rather chilly storm on day eight, fascinated at the lack of panic. The two hobbits lashed themselves securely to the railing with stout ropes, fearful that they would be swept overboard by an errant wave and not be noticed by the busy crew until it was too late. The work was actually well coordinated and rather calming to the worried hobbits. There was a certain beauty in the ballet of rigging and securing occurring far above the rolling deck.

On day nine Frodo awoke to find that the ship was running at a steep slope. He found himself lying in an angle where the ship's exterior wall met his bunk. Actually, he was lying more on the wall than in the bunk. Frodo could tell it was morning, but something was strange about the light coming into the cabin. It flickered and sparkled like diamonds or opals caught in bright sunlight.

When he looked up at the porthole near the ceiling, Frodo was astonished to see blue rather than the normal pale yellowish grey morning sunlight.

"Water!" Frodo cried, bumping his head against the wall in blind panic to untangle himself from the bed sheets. His heart was racing as if he had been running for miles. Frodo struggled to get out of his bunk due to the extreme slant. "Bilbo! Get out! We're sinking!"

"Sinking?" A confused sleepy voice came from the bunk below. "What? Sinking? I don't see any water, Frodo. We're not sinking." Bilbo struggled out of his bunk just as Frodo leapt from upper one, both attempting to stand upright on a steeply slanting floor. Frodo grabbed onto Bilbo's sleeve to keep from falling flat.

"What are you going on about, Frodo?" Bilbo helped steady Frodo as a frown crossed his disheveled face.

"But…" Frodo pointed a shaking finger at the porthole. Bright morning sunlight rippled through the filtering teal water, sending blue and green tram beams dancing along the polished wood.

Bilbo laughed in delight. "Well! Will you look at that!" A thin speckled fish darted past the porthole, causing the hobbits to gasp slightly.

"Good thing that porthole is watertight," Bilbo swallowed.

"Are we going to tip over?" Frodo asked, putting his hands against the wall to pull himself upwards towards the door. With the extra help of gravity it opened inward a bit faster than he was anticipating, bumping him on the forehead.

"Ow!" Frodo pulled himself past the doorjamb and looked down the empty hallway. He could hear the ship creaking, naked feet padding softly on the polished wooden deck above his head, and the occasional thump of Shadowfax shifting about. The smell of bacon and toast wafting by. Everything was normal, save for the fact that the ship was sailing at a decidedly low angle to the waterline. Frodo went back inside and heaved the door shut.

Bilbo was putting on a shirt. "Maybe this is normal," the elder hobbit said.

Frodo saw something rather flat and brown swim past the porthole. It looked like some sort of gigantic troll's dinner platter with a long, thin tail at one end and bulbous eyes poking up through the mottled skin at the other. Frodo's own eyes widened and he scrambled back up into his bunk, standing up to press his face against the cool glass. The porthole was situated directly underneath the waterline. The motion of the ship under sail occasionally caused the porthole to rise above the waterline, and then sink back below. Frodo stood, transfixed at the novel sight of seeing the underworld of the ocean open up just past his nose.

There were fish… and… well… things… swimming beside the hull and out into the dark distant water. He had never seen such things, or even imagined them in his dreams.

Long, sinuous fish with heads shaped like elongated Dwarvish axes. Whirling clouds of small silvery fish in numbers too large to count. Dark grey fish with saws sticking out of their mouths and others with row upon row of ghastly knife-like teeth. Something that resembled a turtle, but couldn't possibly be, since it was swimming rather than sinking. It appeared to be wearing thick green leather armor. 'Perhaps it is a foot soldier for some underwater realm,' Frodo mused. 'Ah, don't be ridiculous. Can't be a foot soldier. He hasn't any feet. Maybe it's a female. How can one tell with things like that?'

Frodo observed many bizarre creatures bobbing near the surface that looked so strange he spent a long time coming up with a concept for what it was made of and how it could possibly swim. He finally named them 'sea clouds' because they mostly resembled transparent clouds with long, thin tangles of rain trailing beneath and behind the larger, loosely rounded 'head.' If it was a head. Maybe it was the body. Maybe it had no head. Maybe it was an underwater thunderstorm, though that also sounded absurd. Frodo wasn't sure what it was, but sketched it anyway. As to how the 'sea cloud' moved about, Frodo could only guess. Perhaps it used some sort of pump, though how a sea creature could ever construct a pump without the benefit of hands was beyond his imagination.

Frodo tried to remember any mention of creatures such as these in any of the books he read, but came up blank. He spent the rest of the morning gazing out the porthole into the blue abyss, and madly sketching the strangeness swimming in the deep blue waters.

When the relentless wind finally shifted to the East and then died out, the ship righted itself to a more normal slant and Frodo lost his view into the ocean's secrets. He had sketched several creatures in his ever-present journal. Frodo went above deck in the afternoon and redrew his crude sketches into more fully detailed charcoal drawings before the memory of what he had seen was lost to the nightmares of the night.


	5. Evening 10: Dancing

Chapter Five: Evening Ten: Dancing

The tenth day at sea was trying for all aboard ship. A wall of rain came screaming out of the north, driving the ship sideways and off their path westward. The gallant crew fought the relentless rain, struggling to maintain sails so that the captain could tack back northwestwards. Passengers were ordered below decks. For hours the crew stayed above, working the ropes, pulleys, blocks and canvas until their hands bled into the salty spray. Even the most nimble were secured by slender Elvish ropes to the railings for fear of being washed overboard in the rough seas.

Finally Cirdan called for all sails to be furled and for all hosts, save the helmsman and mate to repair below decks, and all hatches lashed secure. Shadowfax was the last to abandon the main deck. The great Meara finally condescended to the small stable box built for him in the forecastle, wedging himself inside with the store of hay and grain.

"Call out if you need us, my friend," Gandalf said as he closed the stall door and one of the Elvish crew secured it against the wind and driving rain. "I am directly below and will hear."

The white stallion snorted from within the small enclosure. Wizard and elf quickly descended the tiny stairwell in the fore which lead into the main hallway on the first deck below.

"Best to ride this out and then correct course than risk loosing someone," Cirdan said, securing the hatch behind him and joining the rest of the crew and passengers below. Most repaired to their cabins to dry off, tend their bruises and cuts, and eat something.

Frodo was dreadfully ill throughout the morning during the worst of the storm. He commandeered a small brass bucket to replace an open window during his bouts of seasickness. The ship lurched and moaned in the swells. Frodo hunkered down on Bilbo's lower bunk throughout the tempest, afraid to attempt the short climb to his own upper bunk.

"I might be dexterous and quite comfortable climbing trees on dry land, but doing the same thing on a swaying ladder against the unexpected bucking of a ship is quite another thing," he said.

Bilbo nodded his agreement. "Besides, you don't want to be sick all over your bed sheets."

The two hobbits stayed in their cabin for awhile, but Bilbo eventually left after Frodo threw up for the second time.

"I'll be in the mess hall if you need me," he quietly said before closing the door and staggering his way down the hall.

The rain relented of its fury by mid-afternoon, and quieted down to steady showers for the rest of the day. Cirdan allowed selected crew above to reset the sails and free Shadowfax from the confines of his stall. The captain took over helm duty and set a new course to correct their southerly drift. With the help of the constant winds, the ship was back on path by twilight.

Frodo was feeling well enough by dusk to venture out of the cabin. Since there was an abundance of rain water collected, he indulged himself in a bath before changing into fresh clothes. He selected a nice, warm chocolate-colored suit and subtle black and ruby vest, combed his dark wet hair, and went into the galley.

"You're looking a sight better than the last time I saw you." Bilbo smiled upon seeing a fresh-faced Frodo step across the raised door jam and enter the mess. "How are you feeling?"

"Much improved," Frodo smiled, "though I doubt if I shall be able to eat a full meal yet."

"I have just the thing to quiet an unsettled stomach, Young Mister Baggins," the cook said. The dark-haired elf reached under the countertop and pulled out a beautiful crystal bottle filled with golden liquid. The elf retrieved a sparkling cut-glass goblet and filled it half way with the wine. He added cool, fresh water to the goblet, then plopped in a couple of small fresh strawberries and mixed the concoction. He smiled and handed it to Frodo. "Enjoy. It's a bit sweet, but I think that is just what your stomach needs right now."

Frodo took a sip of the sparkling liquid. It was delightful and refreshing. Not at all cloyingly sweet as he had expected. "Thank you. This is wonderful. Do you think the captain will allow me to take this upstairs?"

"Certainly," the cook replied. "Take a couple of these honey rolls with you too. After a few sips of the wine, you might find your appetite has returned." The cook smiled.

Frodo thanked the elf and headed up the stairs towards mid-deck, mindful to not spill a drop of the delicious golden liqueur. He found the deck mostly deserted in the growing darkness. All the luminescent sails had been unfurled into the steady breeze, forming a pattern of soft silver against the passing black clouds within a deep cerulean sky.

Frodo settled himself into a soft coil of Elvish rope stored on top of small wooden crates lashed to the back wall of the forecastle stable. The rope was miraculously dry, although the crates were soaked. Frodo arranged the rope into a fabric chair, using part of it as a back and another part as the seat. He sat crossed-legged, contentedly munching the soft, fresh honey loaves and sipping the strawberry-decorated wine as stars began to appear intermixed with the clouds. He could see the line of weather which had brought the rain moving off, dragging the few remaining clouds with it into the south.

A lone elf dressed in flowing azure and pearl robes appeared at the aft cabins stairwell. Frodo barely recognized him as Arloth, one of the nimble-footed mariners whose main duty seemed to be taking care of the mizzen mast sail. He had spent the long day fighting the gale. Frodo guessed that he had spent the late afternoon and early evening hours resting below decks with the rest of the crew. Arloth silently climbed the stairs and moved to an area of assorted crates mounted starboard of the main mast. He spread the fabric of his tunic, sat down, tucked a violin under his chin, and began to play.

The melody started out low and melancholy. The violinist played without vibrato at first, letting the lower strings fully resonate within the gleaming polished maple. He began with a haunting, sustained line full of sadness at its own loneliness under the endless night sky. As the melody rose, Arloth added the barest touch of vibrato, causing the instrument to cry as a voice to the stars. The song echoed against the wooden shell of the ship, producing a surprising resonance in the crystalline open air.

Frodo stopped eating, entranced by the magical music. He did not notice at first the other elves quietly joining him at the forecastle or silently spreading out all across the main deck. When a soft, low drum began to keep rhythm to the violinist's melody, Frodo shook his head and glanced about. The deck was filled with elves arrayed in long, formal robes in somber colors. Some sat. Some stood. Some gathered in a circle about the main mast.

The addition of the drum indicated a change in the music. Hopefulness and longing replaced melancholy and sadness. The line rose and changed tonalities. The song of the violin played with the rhythm of the drum in a complicated dance of form and intensity.

A female clad in a long, elegant gossamer green dress with threads of shiny black woven in a pattern of swallows in flight began dancing. Frodo had witnessed formal couple and line dancing by elves and men at King Elessar and Queen Arwen's wedding, and had also seen the free dancing by individuals in sheltered woodland glades surrounding Rivendell. This dancing reminded him of the uninhibited woodland dances. She danced unshod upon the simple wooden deck, her long cascading black hair unbound save for a sensuous silver circlet upon her milk-white brow.

She danced in circles about the main mast, the embroidered sleeves of both pale overlay and ivory under dress thrown back to reveal the graceful gestures of her bare arms and hands. She was surrounded by others who sat at her feet. A tall chestnut haired male stepped through the seated circle to join the lone dancer as the tender sounds of lute and pipe joined the instrumental chorus.

Again, the dance shifted to accommodate a change in the music. A complex triple meter replaced the duple, and the drum was abandoned for the sparkling tinkle of a triangle. A flute was added to the consort, acting as a lover to the violin; playing sweet harmony and counterpoint to the lilting song. The two dancers took their cue from the orchestra as their hands joined together and they stepped into a formal courtly dance Frodo had seen at the wedding.

The hobbit took another sip of his wine and settled back into the rope chair. Blessed darkness, enchanting music and poetry in lithe limbs had enveloped the ship in a mysterious cocoon of sweet nostalgia.

Other couples rose from their places on the deck and joined the dance. They formed a ring around the main mast and joined hands, facing center. Three steps to the right; RLR. Twirl about towards the left; LRL. Rejoin hands and again face the center; RLR. A large forward step with two smaller swaying in-place steps; LRL. Back again and the two smaller in-place steps; LRL. The pattern repeated; the circle slowly advancing to the right with every iteration. Frodo was mesmerized by the subtle shifting pattern and the always modulating music.

The flutist began a solemn march, and the circle of dancers broke apart. The tempo quickened as drum and lute followed the flute's lead. All the females sat down in a circle. The males formed a connected line inside the circle facing the center; left hand on the right shoulder of the person to their left. Frodo had a difficult time following the quick movements. The march consisted of a confusing pattern of stomps, dips and twists in unison.

"Thank goodness they know what they're doing, or else someone would end up inadvertently kicking their neighbor."

Frodo quietly chucked and took a sip as Bilbo joined him on the ropes.

"Care for a strawberry?" Frodo whispered, fishing out the wine-laced fruit with his fingers.

Bilbo opened his mouth like a baby bird, and Frodo plopped the strawberry in. Bilbo's right hand held a matching crystal goblet filled with golden wine, and the left clasped a full decanter. "Ummm….. Very nice. Care for a refill?"

Frodo nodded and they both settled in to watch the dancing. The march was over and the males had joined their companions in sitting around the circle. A slender elf-maid began singing. Frodo recognized the lay as part of the Song of Praise to Elbereth. He really did not comprehend all of the Sindarin words yet, but understood far more now than he had the last time he heard the song sung in Rivendell.

The vocalist and flutist took turns voicing the melody. Each musician added their own subtle interpretation and variation to the familiar tome. Sometimes it was a solo. Sometimes it was a duet. Always it was hypnotic.

The effects of the wine and soft music, swaying bodies and tender darkness took their toll on the sleepy hobbits. The last thing Frodo remembered before slipping into quiet slumber was a tall, golden figure clad in purest white. She floated into the circle and began to dance. Her long, wavy gold and silver hair was loose, and the slight wind kissed it into animation. A few left-over raindrops fell from the sky, but they dispersed about her in a thousand midnight rainbows. The Lady of the Golden Wood danced to the blessed stars, and Frodo closed his eyes.


	6. Day 14: The Straight Path

A/N: Please leave a review. Thanks...

Chapter Six: Day Fourteen: The Straight Path

"Have you ever made this journey?"

Frodo sat on a little box next to the helmsman looking over the mostly empty top deck. The ship was outfitted with graceful wooden oars tucked into the side rails, as well as the shimmering silver sails now employed at holding a northeasterly wind. The oars were seldom used, as Cirdan and the other officers were able to use the changeable breezes to keep the ship true to its Western course. A pair of sleek blue and light grey dolphins played in the frothy wake off the ship's bow. They seemed to be dancing for joy, tumbling back and then racing ahead of the wake.

Lord Cirdan himself was taking a turn at the helm, and Frodo had come to him for understanding, if it could be found.

"No, I have not," the tall Elf-Lord replied. Cirdan was different from the other Elves on the great grey swan ship. It was more than the fact that his long, straight hair was completely silver, as opposed to the more normal brunette of Elrond's people or the golden hair of the Galadhrim. He was older somehow. More like unto Lord Elrond or Galadriel herself; or the Lord Celeborn, Galadriel's husband who had elected to remain behind in Middle Earth to continue to eradicate orcs and other fell creatures before making the voyage West. That was it! Cirdan reminded Frodo of Celeborn.

His eyes never left the faint light-blue horizon as he talked to the hobbit. "I am as much a novice on this journey as you."

Frodo's brows knitted in concentration. "But my Lord, Gandalf told me you are of the First Age."

"That is true," he replied. "I was born in the First Age of this world. But I am a Sindarin Elf. I was born in Middle Earth as you were. I am not of the Noldor, though I witnessed their coming to Middle Earth and the greatness, knowledge and tragedy they brought. I never made the great crossing to Aman. I remained with my people in Eriador, first near Annuminas and then eventually building the White Towers for the Sons of Numenor and founding Mithlond in the Gulf of Lhun."

Frodo thought this over. "Were you in the Last Alliance during the Second Age?"

The Elf-lord glanced down and smiled. "Yes I was. The elves of the Haven joined Rivendell's forces under Gil-Galad the Great. My father and I served along side Lord Elrond at the Black Gates and in the final battle before Mount Doom."

"My stars," Frodo exclaimed. "You witnessed Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron?"

"Indeed," Cirdan quietly replied. "Lord Elrond and I were at the front of our forces supporting Gil-Galad. When King Esildur and Gil-Galad were slain, Elrond and I took over command of the Elvish Alliance forces, along with Isildur who commanded the combined forces of Men from Numenor, Gondor and their allies. I have walked the same terrible path you and Samwise trod. I have been inside Samat Naur and have seen the great fire within."

"I thought only Lord Elrond and Isildur the King went inside the mountain," Frodo said.

"I was with them inside that ghastly place," Cirdan said. "We could not convince the King to cast the Ring into the fire and unmake it. He swore a mighty oath to bind his blood to the Ring as a wergild for the death of his father. Isildur thought he could master the Ring. The Kings of the West were great and powerful in those days. Sauron himself was a hostage to a King of Numenor at one time. But none of us guessed at the malevolence and power contained within that simple band of gold. We thought that with a King holding the One Ring, the three Elvish Rings of Power would finally be freed from their concealment, and we might safely use them for the enrichment of Middle Earth." He sighed. "How utterly wrong we all were."

The two remained in silence for a little while. Then Frodo began his questioning again. "You must have had many opportunities since then to take a ship into the West."

"I have built and outfitted countless ships for the voyages to the Uttermost West, but I never took such a journey myself."

"Why not?" Frodo asked. The cool early morning breeze ruffled his hair and made the sails strain against the ropes. The ship creaked and groaned as now-familiar background noises. The gay dolphins chattered and sung as they crossed over and under each other. Frodo wished he could understand their language. Maybe the Elves had taught them speech like they did with the Ents.

The Elf smiled and looked down at the hobbit. 'So young. So forthright. So innocent,' he briefly thought. 'No wonder Olorin delights in them.' Then his thoughts turned to the individual, and not the collective race of hobbits.

This individual was not innocent, despite his youthful looks and inquisitive manners. This individual carried the One Ring: the bane of Cirdan's existence for two entire ages of Middle Earth. Cirdan knew Sauron when he came to Middle Earth even in his fair and shining form, created the Rings of Power, and then claimed Middle Earth as his own realm. Cirdan had been a Ringbearer himself, carrying Narya the Great, the Elf Ring of Fire, against Sauron through the Second Age, relinquishing it to Gandalf when the Wizard's need was greatest. Cirdan had sacrificed the safekeeping of the Havens when he yielded Narya to the Wizard, trusting to the remoteness and isolation of the Havens to protect the great Elf shipyards from the Dark Lord until the End was come.

'I owe the protection of the Havens to the Halflings,' he suddenly remembered. Olorin had hinted at this possibility back at the beginning of the Third Age.

"I am sending you allies, my friend, so that the empty lands of Arnor will be repopulated," the Wizard told the Elf-Lord so long ago. "Settled by mortals, but not by Men. I have started a migration of a race of halflings. Soon they will cross the Misty Mountains and, I hope, settle west of the Baranduin. They are well suited for this type of land. They might prove useful. At least they will be a minimal buffer for you, should the Dark Lord attempt to reestablish his stronghold in the North."

'So long ago,' Cirdan mused. 'Olorin was right. The halflings came. But they were small. I discounted them. Overlooked them.'

"Er…pardon me, my Lord. I shall leave if you would rather not discuss that subject."

Cirdan was abruptly brought into the present by Frodo's voice.

"Oh, a thousand pardons, Ringbearer," the Elf said. "I was lost in the past for a moment. Please forgive me. Please retake your seat."

Frodo looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he might have overstepped some unspoken boundary. Cirdan smiled, shook his head and concentrated on remaining in the present.

"I have not taken the journey into the West because it is a one-way passage," he said. "No one who has ever taken such a journey has returned, save the Noldor, and they are gone."

Frodo frowned in concentration. "I do beg your pardon, but I thought the Lady Galadriel was Noldorian?"

"I stand corrected," he said. "She is of the Noldor. However, the Lady Galadriel was born in Valinor itself, and has only traveled eastward to Middle Earth. There are now none left who made the Great Journey from Middle Earth to Aman and back."

Frodo pondered what he had heard. After a little silence he slowly continued. "If… if the Lady Galadriel made the journey Eastward in the First Age, and Elves can recall the past almost as easily as the present, then couldn't she lay out a return course Westward?"

"You have a quick mind, Frodo Baggins," Cirdan replied. "But your logic is flawed. Her knowledge is useless in this Age, since the very shape of the seas and lands are now bent. I have talked with the Lady about this very subject. She no longer recognizes the path her ship traveled. The world is changed too greatly."

"Then… we are lost upon the face of the deep," Frodo whispered. "How will we come to the Undying Lands if we do not know the way?"

Cirdan smiled. "We trust in the Valar. We are told that our path is the Sacred Straight Path into the West, and so we set course thusly. Straight west. We trust to Manwe's gentle airs and Ulmo's mighty ocean currents to guide the ship."

"What will happen if we miss the path?" Frodo quietly asked. "Will we fall off the edge of the Seas?"

"No," Cirdan confidently replied. "The world is bent. That means the world is round and we cannot fall off its edge." He looked at the worried hobbit. "Do not be overly concerned. There are signs along the way which indicate we are on the correct path."

"What sort of signs?" Frodo asked. "We are on the Sea. It is featureless."

"Perhaps to you, but not to mariners," the Elf replied. "We may not know how wide or deep the Western Sea is, but we do know there are signposts along the way. Some currents are known. The dolphins are messengers from Osse, sent to encourage the traveler. And at some point the dolphins will leave and we will experience mists. Enchanted mists. These surround the Enchanted Isles, which are close by Tol Eressea. Before the mists we must look for Manwe's path."

"What is that?" Frodo questioned.

"You call it the rainbow. It is actually a path placed in the sky that allows spirits to travel from Middle Earth to the Halls of Mandos. It used to be straight, but when the world was changed it also was bent. It now appears in the sky as a bow."

"Will we die when find it, or it finds us?"

"I do not believe so. But if we do, so be it. In any case we will pass through the rainbow. I do not know for certain what will happen when we do, but we will pass through it together."

Frodo stood and bowed gravely. "Thank you, my Lord, for taking the time to talk with me."

Cirdan returned the bow. "Thank you, Ringbearer, for all that you have done. You are named Elf-friend by many, and now confirmed by myself. We have a blessing aboard ship with your presence, and the presence of your kin."

Frodo's piercing blue eyes suddenly connected with the dark brown of the Elf's. "You are the Blessed; not I. It is undying Elfhome you seek, not the Gift of Mortals. I, on the other hand, am mortal. I am supposed to die. I do not know what awaits my kindred and me should we arrive at the Undying Lands. But I do not look forward to it."

Cirdan watched in surprise as the hobbit quietly slipped below decks. He had much to ask Gandalf.


	7. Day 17: Boromir

Day Sixteen: Boromir

Bilbo took to shipboard life almost as if he had been born to it, much to the surprise of everyone. He delighted in learning the ways of the crew and the operation of the small village afloat on the seemingly endless expanse of water. Lord Cirdan, captain of the swan ship, was charmed to find such an apt student in the ancient hobbit. Bilbo was eager to learn about navigation, star charts and ocean current maps. The Elf had not had a pupil in many long years, and Bilbo's enthusiasm pleased him.

"Oh, how wonderful!" Bilbo declared the third day they were at sea. Cirdan had invited the two hobbits into the Captain's quarters in the aft cabins. The Elf-lord was showing them the nautical library with its numerous maps and cunning instruments for measuring depths, speed, time and distance. After orienting them to where the different subjects were stored, the Elf retired to his private cabin and gently closed the sliding doors separating his quarters from the library.

Bilbo spent the next few hours reading weather-related pamphlets and charts. He would occasionally pull out a scrolled map tucked away in a corner of the room and add it to his ever-growing pile of reading materials overflowing the small wooden table bolted to the floor in the center of the room. Frodo privately chuckled. Bilbo was quickly turning the neat and tidy Elvish library into his own preposterously messy hobbit study.

While Frodo was equally fascinated with the wealth of information suddenly available to him, he was not as natural a sailor as his uncle. The persistent rocking motion of the ship, and the close, dark and rather stale air of the library made him feel as if he had eaten something not quite right.

The thought of food was not a good idea. Not a good idea at all!

Frodo tried to swallow down a growing sense of doom rising from the pit of his stomach. His mouth watered uncontrollably. A sour hiccup convinced him of his need for air. He looked about frantically, and found a small window latched shut between bookcases built into the ship's hull. Frodo quickly pulled a chair over beneath the window and climbed up to unlatch the painted iron hardware. He spent a good portion of day three hanging his head outside and throwing up.

Bilbo hardly noticed.

After Frodo finally found his sea legs on day four, he visited the library more frequently, though he always unlocked the little window and propped it open, just in case. Only during days and nights of rough weather did the hobbit experience the seasickness. Bilbo never suffered, much to Frodo's annoyance.

"Natural born sailor, my lad," Bilbo bragged. "Must have got it from the Took side of the family. The Old Took had some relations that went to Sea. It's in our blood, you know."

"Perhaps it's in our blood, Uncle, but I think I missed out on that family trait," Frodo weakly jested. "I prefer to have my blood, as well as the rest of me, firmly on dry land."

The evening of their fifteenth day at sea was again rough, and Frodo was feeling decidedly queasy. He decided to err on the side of caution and went to bed early that evening without supper. Frodo changed into a nightshirt and placed a familiar metal bowl up inside the crook of his bunk. 'Just in case,' he grimly thought. The last thing he did before retiring to the upper bunk was to remove the Evenstar, gently wrap it in a pale green silken handkerchief, and carefully tuck it away inside the little chest-of-drawers bolted to the cabin's wall. 'No use throwing up on that again,' he reasoned before settling in for another night of rough seas.

Day sixteen quietly slipped into a wet dawn, with steady, light drizzle, calm seas and no wind. Bilbo woke first, tossing off the quilted covers and stepping onto the smooth, cool wooden floors. He still occupied the lower bunk, even though his aches and pains were so greatly diminished as to be of very little bother.

Bilbo dressed himself in the dark; faintly surprised to see Frodo still asleep in the tangled blue blankets covering the upper bunk. The ship's motions where so subtle they almost seemed to be stationary. No creaking or thumping noises from the wooden planks sealed with tar. For the first time since boarding, Bilbo did not notice the constant vibration of waves pressing against the sideboards and keel. Nor did he hear the rhythms of ropes and pulleys above deck.

'Either we've docked and no one's come to tell us,' he thought as he quietly finished dressing in the dim blue light filtering in from the lone porthole above Frodo's head, 'or we're becalmed. Might as well find out.'

He heard Frodo grunt slightly as the younger hobbit turned over and clutched the woolen blankets more tightly to his slight frame.

"I'm off to breakfast. Can I get you anything, my boy?" Bilbo whispered, half afraid of waking his heir if indeed Frodo was asleep.

"No," whispered the faint reply from within the covers.

"Right," Bilbo said. "There's a full water bottle on the chest-of-drawers. I'll be in the mess if you need me." He removed the unused metal bowl from Frodo's bed, and then left the cabin, gently closing the door behind.

Frodo lay awhile in the stillness and relative warmth of the many blankets, but he could feel it beginning again.

'No,' he thought. 'Not now. Not here. What day is it?' The ache in his shoulder. The nausea in the pit of his stomach. The distinctive metallic taste of poison in his mouth. This was not seasickness. It was happening again. Would he never be free of it? Of the pain? The unwanted desires and memories? The madness?

If he stayed below… if he stayed here in the cabin… here in bed… perhaps he could ride it out without the others knowing. Frodo felt waves of shame rise like vomit to lodge itself atop the ever-increasing feelings of hopelessness and emptiness. He curled himself into a tight ball, swallowed hard, and crawled as deep into the corner of his bunk as he could. His vision narrowed and darkened as he gazed up in longing at the empty sky shimmering through the porthole. He soon lost all peripheral sight even as the cold in his left shoulder snaked its way along familiar lines down into his arm, up his neck and across his chest.

Bilbo returned after a few hours above deck. "Frodo?" There was no answer from the huddled mass of blankets tucked into the foot of the upper bunk. Bilbo climbed onto his own bunk and reached out to gently pat the body tightly curled under the blankets. "Frodo?"

"Please…" The voice sounded terribly old and tired and frightened. "Please leave me alone. Don't touch me. Please. Don't hurt me again. I don't have it anymore."

Bilbo could feel the shivers running down Frodo's body even as he curled himself tighter and tighter into a ball against the wall. Bilbo gently pulled back the cover from Frodo's face. He was drenched in sweat yet cold to the touch as Bilbo gently caressed the flushed cheeks.

"There, there," Bilbo crooned as to an ill child, "I'll go get Elrond. He'll be able to help. You stay here, my boy. I'll be right back."

The hobbit soon returned with a concerned Elf, closely followed by the Wizard. As they could not all squeeze into the hobbit-sized compartment at one time, Bilbo and Gandalf waited outside as Elrond quietly shut the door.

"No… Noooooo… Oh, noooooo… Please! No… Please, don't…"

Tears started to Bilbo's eyes upon hearing the heart-wrenching cries as they carried through the door. "What's wrong with him, Gandalf?" Bilbo sobbed.

The Wizard sighed and hunched down into the hallway. "Do you remember his Morgul-blade wounding?"

"Yes, yes. Of course," the elderly hobbit gruffly sniffled. "He got over it."

"Not completely," the Wizard whispered.

"What? You mean to tell me you lied to me?" Bilbo could hardly control his fury. "Elrond lied? Frodo himself lied?" The hobbit's fists shook in anger. "Tell me the truth, you scheming old thing, you!"

The unexpected sound of the door opening abruptly cut short their argument. "I need a bit of brandy, a bowl of cool water and some towels, please." Elrond closed the door again before either Wizard or hobbit could reply.

Bilbo took off running down the hallway, and soon returned with the items. Gandalf lightly tapped on the door, and Elrond deftly took the objects from Bilbo.

"So… cold…" The door shut abruptly, leaving the Wizard and hobbit alone in the hallway once again.

"My dearest Bilbo," Gandalf gently continued, "We never lied to you. Frodo did recover from the wound, but he was never completely healed. Elrond fought the evil enchantment on the blade, but even his considerable powers have their limit. And with the destruction of the One Ring, all the good created by the use of the Elvish Rings of Power also failed or became undone. This includes what Elrond did to help Frodo through that wounding. Frodo knew he would carry this with him for the rest of his days." The Wizard sighed. "I think this is the only reason he agreed to travel to the Undying Lands. Elrond once told him healing might be found in the Blessed Realm. I believe this is Frodo's final hope."

"Hope." The word fell flat from Bilbo's mouth. It tasted bitter like ashes and sour milk.

"Ahhhh…. I… don't… have… it!" The dreadfully painful shrieks and loud thunks against the hull cut like a knife through the stillness of the becalmed ship. Several curious heads peeked out into the hallway, only to quickly disappear upon seeing the hunched form of the Wizard and a hobbit with his head in his hands.

Tears flowed unchecked down Bilbo's weathered cheeks. "What hope is there in this?" The distraught hobbit gestured wildly into thin air. "Tell me that, Gandalf. Why does this evil endure when goodness fails? Hasn't he done enough already? What good can come of my poor boy's continuous suffering?"

"I do not know," was all the Wizard could manage. "If it were in my power to alleviate his suffering right now, I would do so. I would sacrifice myself again for him, if it could somehow change his fate. But such graces may only be made by powers greater than I. That, my dearest friend, is why we are taking Frodo to Tol Eressea. For while Frodo yet lives, there is hope."

The Wizard gently enfolded the crying elderly hobbit inside his arms and gently stroked the grey curls. "There, there, my dearest Bilbo. Frodo IS strong. He is stronger than he himself believes. He will come through this day as he has come through others like it."

They heard a sharp bang as if someone inside the cabin were ripping it apart plank by plank. "Ah!" Elrond's voice was heard through the door. It was the first time he had spoken.

"Please… stop! Please! I… don't…. know….. where…… it……. is…….." Frodo's tortured voice faded into a whisper, and then was silent.

Bilbo could not recollect how long he and Gandalf paced the hallway before the door finally opened and Lord Elrond stepped out. "He is calm now," the Elf-lord quietly stated, then turned to Bilbo. "Make certain he wears my daughter's pendant at all times," he abruptly said. "I know all about it. She gave it to him for a very good reason. There is no need to hide it from my eyes."

Bilbo blinked in surprise, but gravely nodded.

"The worst is past and he has regained his mind." Elrond turned to Gandalf. "Frodo has asked to talk with you, Mithrandir."

Bilbo's heart sank within his breast. "Fear not, dear Bilbo," Elrond smiled. "Frodo has also asked for you. He wishes you would remain with him when he sleeps. He loves and trusts you like none other here. Come with me. Gandalf will find you when Frodo is ready." The two friends walked down the hallway, leaving Gandalf to enter the small chamber.

The cabin was a jumbled mess of clothing and wood strewn across the floor.

Gandalf found Frodo propped up against multiple pillows on the shadowy lower bunk, tightly clutching the pendant that now hung about his neck. Several blankets covered him from the neck down. And though he was sitting upright, his knees where drawn up against his chest. A faint sheen of sweat covered his upper lip and clung to his hair even though a damp towel was draped across his brow.

Gandalf noted the dark circles under the closed and reddened eyelids. He carefully replaced the top of the chest-of-drawers that had evidently been ripped off by Elrond in his haste to locate the pendant. The Wizard sat down upon the poor abused chest-of-drawers and waited.

"Gandalf?" The voice in the dark was faint, but steady.

"Yes, Frodo."

"Do you think I will last as long as the other?"

"What other, Frodo?"

"The other person who lived after receiving a wound such as mine."

The Wizard grunted slightly. "Oh. Interesting. How did you learn about him?"

"I spent time in the great library while convalescing in Minas Tirith," Frodo replied without opening his eyes. "I was interested in reading the history of the Kings and Stewards." He paused briefly, and then continued. "It was one of the early Stewards of the Second Age. Another Boromir, if I am not mistaken."

"You are correct," Gandalf replied. "Boromir, son of Denethor the First, Eleventh Ruling Steward of Gondor. He also suffered a Morgul-blade wound at the hands of the Witch King of Angmar."

"The journals do not reveal much about his wounding," Frodo whispered. "But I gather Lord Elrond must have treated him before he treated my Morgul-wound." He shifted slightly, wincing as a sharp pain ghosted along his neck.

"How did you surmise that Lord Elrond treated him?" Gandalf asked. "That detail is certainly not written in the annals."

Frodo opened his eyes. "That Boromir lived twelve long years after his wounding before finally succumbing to the poison. Lord Elrond's powers of healing are well known, and I imagine Steward Boromir tried consulting with him about the pain as I have." Frodo accepted the water bottle Gandalf offered. "Tell me, Gandalf. Did Boromir travel to Rivendell or did Lord Elrond make the journey to Osgiliath?"

"Minas Tirith," Gandalf quietly replied. "The capital of Gondor was Osgiliath during that Age, but Osgiliath was destroyed by the Witch King during Boromir's Stewardship. He knew he was too weak to repulse an attack from Minas Morgul. He abandoned Osgiliath. We were in Minas Tirith when Elrond came at my bidding."

"Why did Lord Elrond agree to treat me, when experience with Steward Boromir showed that this sort of wound is incurable?" Frodo asked.

"Ah, Boromir," Gandalf sighed. "Such a hard head, just like his namesake. Both stubborn, proud and willful men." Gandalf patted Frodo on the foot. "Not like you, my dear hobbit." Gandalf leaned back against the doorframe. "Boromir suffered from the folly of pride. It was pride that drove him to challenge Angmar in personal combat in the first place. And it was pride that kept him from asking for help until it was too late.

"You, my dear hobbit, harbor no such fatal flaws. You were treated within a month of your wounding, though even that short of a delay almost cost you your life. The Steward waited five years before calling for aide."

Frodo stared into space. "If a strong and powerful Man – a descendant of the Numenoreans – only lasted twelve years, and I have already lived four years since my wounding, how much longer will I, a hobbit, linger before I also succumb?"

"That, no one can answer," Gandalf quietly replied.

Frodo swallowed tightly. "I thought… or at least, I hoped, I would be spared this by leaving Middle Earth."

"Perhaps you shall," the Wizard replied. "We are still on the Great Ocean. It is October the Sixth, and we have not yet left Middle Earth."

Frodo sighed and stretched out on the bunk. Gandalf removed the compress, gently rearranged the covers, and tucked the weary hobbit into a warm cocoon of blankets. Frodo sighed and closed his eyes.

"Gandalf?" The Wizard had a hard time hearing the faint voice. "Even if we find the Path to Tol Eressea, what will happen to me when I try to set foot on its shores? Will I die immediately? Or will the land simply refuse me?"

"Why do you think you won't be allowed onto Tol Eressea, Frodo?" Gandalf asked, gently stroking the flushed cheek.

"I had a dream…" He was asleep.


	8. Day 17 cont: Frodo's Dream

Day Seventeen (cont.): Frodo's Dream

Frodo awoke from the nightmare into the darkness of night. Something was constricting his arms and legs. He couldn't move! NO! Not again! The webs! He was trapped in the spider's cocoon! She was coming! The venom!

"Sam!"

Frodo violently thrashed about in the darkness, throwing off the excess blankets so tenderly tucked about his body only hours prior, and instantly bumped his head against an unexpected wooden shelf.

"Ow!"

"What!" A sleepy familiar voice came from somewhere above the lump on his aching head. Not Sam. Bilbo. "What is it, Frodo? Are you all right?"

Frodo realized with a start that he was NOT trapped inside Shelob's tunnel. Bilbo was here. "Where is Sam? How…?" He couldn't remember this place or this bed. He wasn't Bag End. "Where are we?"

"Calm down, my boy," came the gentle familiar voice. "You and I are in the ship bound for the Undying Lands. You've been a bit under the weather, so to speak." Bilbo swung his skinny legs over the upper bunk's railing and climbed down. "We moved you to the lower bunk."

Memories came back to him in a sickening flash. The white ship. Leaving dearest Sam, Merry and Pippin crying on the quay at the Grey Havens. Oh, Sam. So sorry. Days at sea. And yesterday? A blank.

Frodo was hot, despite the chill seeping in through the wooden hull. Hot and cold all at the same time. A familiar, nauseating after-effect of his own peculiar illness. That meant only one thing…

"Oh, sweet Elbereth…" Frodo groaned, holding his aching head in his hands as he swung his feet over the side of the bunk. "I did it again, didn't I?"

"Now, now, Frodo," Bilbo cooed, sat next to him and gently patted him on the back. "You had a bit of a spell yesterday, and we decided it best to keep you safe here in the cabin."

"Who all knows about this?" Frodo sighed. He was hungry. And thirsty. And hurt. And needed to relieve himself urgently. But he was mostly mortified.

"Only Elrond, Gandalf and myself actually spent time with you," Bilbo said. "But I think the whole ship knows something about what happened. Can't keep a secret on board a small ship, now can we?"

Frodo sighed again. "Guess not." He was relieved to find he was at least clothed this time. "Excuse me, Bilbo. I need to use the loo and then get some fresh air." He grabbed his Lothlorien cloak and headed down the hallway.

Frodo had no trouble finding his way in the darkness. One of the after effects of the Morgul stabbing was enhanced night vision. He rarely thought about it any more. He climbed the steep staircase and headed towards the strange contraption slung off the starboard aft railing that served as the ship's communal lavatory. It took a bit of dexterity and a certain amount of daring the first time he had attempted to relieve himself with his rear end literally hanging out above nothing but the empty sea. But Frodo found he could get used to just about anything if everyone was forced to do the same. Even Gandalf and the Lady Galadriel had to endure the 'loo.'

After taking care of business, Frodo crept down into the galley in hopes of securing a bite to eat and something resembling tea to drink. To his surprise, the Lady Galadriel herself was also in the large silent dining room subtly illumined by a single candle and the soft glow of coals in the stove box.

"Oh. Your pardon, my Lady," Frodo stammered.

"Cup of tea?" she quietly asked. The Elf-Queen handed Frodo a dainty porcelain teacup already filled with strong black tea. Frodo bowed slightly and took a sip.

'Ah. She's added honey,' he mused. "Thank you, my Lady." He found some left over bread wrapped in a napkin, crammed it into an inside pocket, and started out the door.

"Would you please join me, Frodo Baggins?" This was not a request.

He followed her faintly glowing form up the stairs and into the silence of the main deck. Dawn had not yet reached the ship, and millions of stars blazed across the firmament. Frodo's heart leapt to his mouth in wonder at the utter beauty of it all. Tiny multi-colored jewels twinkled from horizon to horizon in an endless bowl of sacred light. The sea was totally becalmed, reflecting the mighty work of Elbereth the Blessed, making the ghostly grey swan ship appear suspended within a never ending universe of heart-wrenchingly beautiful stars. Galadriel led him to sit beneath the main mast whose silver sails hung limp without a ruffle of breeze. Save for the helmsman in the rear of the ship, they were alone with the holy stars.

Frodo could tell the air was cold from the way his cup of tea steamed. But he neither felt the chill nor noticed its effect upon the Elf. She sat down beside him and offered him something to eat. Frodo had the distinct impression that he was in a sacred place, and might have also stepped outside of normal time. Whatever she offered him was also sacred. He accepted the small loaf of bread, broke it, took a bite, and then passed it back to Galadriel.

'Tell me of your troubling dream,' she said. She placed her thoughts directly inside Frodo's mind. He had expected as much. He could hide nothing from her.

'I had this last dream the week before Sam and I traveled to the Grey Havens. This dream was not quite like my other dreams of foreknowledge. This one was full of symbols. I usually do not dream of symbols. I cannot tell if what I have seen and experienced in this dream will come true or not.'

'As you learned from looking within the Mirror, not all possible paths can be taken. The path you choose to follow determines which pathways unfolds later. Fear not, and tell me your dream, Frodo.'

Frodo calmed himself and took another sip of tea. Galadriel closed her eyes. Frodo looked out to a soft, fuzzy grouping of seven stars lingering at the horizon and began.

'I am walking along the edge of the Sea near the White Towers, looking at the waves as they break along the shore. I am alone. I find a shell. It is beautiful. Pink on the inside and pearl on the outside. I place it to my ear, and hear clear ringing of bells. Sea bells. They are calling me. Calling me to cross the Sea.

'I look up and a small wooden ship has arrived on the shore. It is waiting for me. I board it. No one else is there. The shell is still in my hand, so I store it on board. The ship heads away from the shore, going West, and I loose sight of Middle Earth.

'I am at sea a long time. Finally I see land appear. Its shores are pristine and gleaming in the pure sunlight. I am happy. I leave the little ship and the seashell in a cove and run from the beach and up a grassy hill.

'I can hear voices. Voices on the wind. They sing. They laugh. I delight in their music, though I cannot understand the words, nor can I see the people. Each time I come close to the voices, they move away. They will not let me see them.

'I wander throughout the beautiful land; through the well-tended gardens filled with flowers bursting with color; through the beautiful villages and cities paved in gleaming marble and precious stones; through the orchards and farmlands groaning with ripe fruit and golden grain. Yet I see no one. All flee before me.

'I am frustrated after months or perhaps years of being alone. I enter a marsh filled with tall yellow and purple gladdens. I pluck a large yellow gladden from the marsh and climb a hill, waving it over my head like a spear or a flag. I shout. "See! Here I am! I have come! I am your lord! Come! Show yourselves!" But the voices are silenced, and I am ashamed.

'In bitter defeat I enter a dark wood filled with wild ferns and mosses. I set myself under an ancient evergreen tree, gathering old leaves and dead fern fronds to ward off the chill that now envelops me. For over a year I sit with my back against the tree, immobile. The owls and wild rabbits come by and taunt me, but I am helpless to help myself. I cannot die and yet I cannot live.

'At last a breeze blows into the wood, bringing the salt scent of the Sea, and I remember the little wooden ship and the sea-bell shell. I get up, shake off the cobwebs, leaves and twigs, and return to the cove. My ship is still there. Still waiting for me. I climb in and leave the land, setting back towards the east. As the land disappears, I again hear the lovely voices singing, and I weep bitter tears.

'My ship takes me back to my homeland. But when I walk into the villages, the people flee from me. I go up to familiar doors and knock. "Let me in! I have returned! You remember me! Please!" But none hear. None see. They flee before my face and I am alone in my own home. I will always be alone. A ghost doomed. I wake to profound sadness.'

A tear escaped from his long lashes, leaving its watery kiss reflecting the starlight. He looked into the golden lashes of the Queen, and saw a reflection of his own sadness. A small sob escaped his trembling lips.

"I am afraid." Frodo's voice caught and quivered with raw emotion. "I am terrified that I have left my home and will be found unworthy to set foot upon the shores of the Blessed Realm. I am afraid I am doomed to wander the Sea – cursed by both mortals and immortals. I am afraid I have truly become a wraith. A wraith of the Sea."

He could no longer hold back the tears. Frodo hung his head in shame at his weakness before the Queen and cried to the silent stars.

"And why do you believe you deserve this punishment, Frodo?" She spoke gently to him.

"Because I carry evil to the Blessed Realm. The evil is within me, my Lady," he managed to whisper through the tears.

"So do we all, Frodo Baggins," she calmly said. "Each of us is a mixture of good and evil. No one is purely one or the other. Not even Sauron himself was totally evil. And I have certainly done my share of evil in my time."

Frodo sniffed and looked into Galadriel's star-bedecked eyes as she continued.

"It is not a matter of whether you are good enough to deserve to enter the Undying Lands. If that were so, no one would be allowed to set foot upon its hallowed shores. All have fallen, Frodo. Every one of us has fallen short of the ideal of goodness.

"It is a matter of grace. Grace from the Valar. We cannot earn it. It is granted freely out of love. This grace was gifted to the Eldar as a birthright, since we are immortal and cannot escape the fate of Arda. This same grace has been granted to you and Bilbo as a place of resting before you claim the special grace Iluvitar has granted mortals – death."

Galadriel smiled. "Do not let your dream trouble you any longer. I need no mirror to see that this dream is only a manifestation of your uncertainty. Be at peace, Frodo Baggins of the Shire. Your doom is past, and you will find rest at this journey's end."

They sat together in silence, watching the Sun announce her arrival by imperceptibly lightening the sky until all the stars were veiled within golden light. The Sea remained calm without a breath of air stirring upon the deep.

Frodo wiped his weary eyes. He was emotionally spent. He picked up his cold teacup, bowed to the Lady, and returned the cup to the now-awakened galley. Frodo retired to the lower bunk in his cabin and slept peacefully for the first time since boarding the ship.


	9. Day 18: Bow of Manwe

Day Eighteen: The Bow of Manwe

The ship was underway again, with a fresh breeze blowing directly behind, filling its sparkling silver sails to the straining point and making the ropes crackle and groan. Frodo sat astride Shadowfax in the forecastle's open-air paddock in the front of the ship. It was as high up as he could go, since he declined to climb ropes on a swaying ship in the middle of an endless ocean, and his left shoulder was aching again.

"I'm looking for the dolphins," he whispered to the great white stallion. "They were here two days ago. Have you seen them?"

Shadowfax shook his mane and gazed steadily at the carved swan's neck and head in front. Frodo sighed and laid his cheek against the horse's warm proud neck. "I miss them." Shadowfax snorted and shifted his weight from left to right.

"You miss them too?" Frodo wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but it seemed that the stallion briefly nodded his head. "Thought so."

"Ahead, captain!" A cry came from the crow's nest high in the maze of ropes and sails of the main mast. Frodo looked up to see a golden-haired elf pointing toward the horizon. The lookout's long straight locks whipped about his face in the wind.

"What do you see?" Cirdan's strong, clear voice rang out in the stiff breeze. Many elves began to climb up out of the below decks, curiosity clearly showing in their beautiful faces.

"Colors, sir," came the reply. "Strange colors. Dead ahead the air looks awash in red."

"Do you see land or fire or smoke?"

"No sir. No smoke. The air is clear. It might be a mist or a change in the very air, if my eyes do not deceive me. It wavers and shimmers as if under a spell."

Soon everyone including the cook was on deck or up in the rigging. All eyes strained towards the horizon.

Within half an hour they were enveloped in it. A beautiful ruby mist surrounded the ship, turning the water a strange purple and causing the silver threads woven throughout the sails to flash crimson and pink. The sun was directly overhead and even she appeared more red than gold.

"Strike sails! Tie off the rudder. Let the air steer the ship. I want soundings taken every two minutes!" Cirdan handed the helm over to Caragil and threaded his way through the uneasy crowd to the front of the vessel next to Frodo and Shadowfax. Sails were gathered and quickly lashed to the cross timbers.

Gandalf, Galadriel, Elrond and Bilbo had joined Frodo in the fore, peering into the disquieting mist that rapidly thickened into a cold red fog. Elrond lifted Bilbo to sit up behind Frodo on the horse. Frodo clutched Shadowfax's mane as Bilbo shifted to look backwards towards the aft.

"I can hardly see the swan wings," Bilbo gasped. The group turned around and saw that it was true. The color was so thick that Cirdan could barely make out Caragil standing at the rudder.

"Silence!" Cirdan frowned in concentration as everyone became still. Only the steady wind and the sound of the waves was heard.

"Twenty fathoms plus," someone called out from the aft.

"Speed?"

"Five knots," came the faint reply from the helm.

Cirdan yelled up towards the crow's nest. "What is visible from the nest?"

"All is in mists, my Captain."

"Did you hear that?" Frodo turned and whispered to Bilbo.

"Hear what?"

"Shhhh…. Listen. It's coming from above."

Frodo heard it again. A faint clinking noise of metal upon metal and the creaking of leather stretching and relaxing. That was impossible. They were eighteen days at sea. No one aboard ship wore leather or carried weapons. Frodo suddenly felt the hairs on his neck rise. He thought someone was walking past his right leg. The tiny hairs on Frodo's arm stood on end and he felt a cold current pass through his left shoulder. Shadowfax nervously stamped his forelegs and snorted.

"What?" Bilbo started and turned about, trying to locate the invisible army.

Frodo could now see the crimson fog thickening into indistinct spectral forms. He could not tell if they were Man, Elf, Hobbit or Orc, but they were definitely there. And definitely dead. And carrying weapons and shields and banners; all broken, bloody and rusted, and trailing behind their weary shuffling feet.

Galadriel placed her slender fingers over Frodo's left hand and twined them into the nervous stallion's mane. Her ring glowed faintly in the ruby light. "Be at peace, my friends," she calmly said. "They are shadows on their way from the battle fields. Their anger is spent and they will not harm you or your kin."

The ship was pushed along with the current as the helmsman methodically called out the speed and a yeoman called out the depts. The dreadful red shades gradually faded away, and the mist brightened to gold.

Gandalf appeared to be aflame. He glanced at Frodo and smiled. "I didn't think of yellow as being your color, but you wear it well."

Frodo glanced down at his shirt and was startled to find it had taken on a distinctive golden hue. So had his skin! He looked up in alarm.

"Don't worry, you vain little hobbit," Gandalf laughed. "Your eyes are still blue as robin's eggs, which looks quite disconcerting peering out from a yellow face."

"Twenty fathoms plus," came the mantra from the back of the ship. The sea looked like molten brass with frothy copper waves. The air tasted metallic and slightly gritty; as if the very air had been dug up from the earth and roasted in iron fires.

Galadriel released her hand, stepped back, and bowed deeply. Frodo could see nothing that would have caused her to do such a thing. Then Elrond placed a hand to his chest and also offered a formal bow to the golden air, even if it appeared to Frodo that the Elf-Lord was reluctant to do so. Every Elf on the ship followed suit and offered a brief, formal bow. Not wanting to offend whatever it was which evidently was going by, Frodo and Bilbo also offered a small bow to the golden air.

"Gandalf?" Frodo whispered after the silence was again broken with a calling of the speed. "What just happened? I did not see or hear anything."

Gandalf the Gold smiled. "We just passed through a company of dwarvish spirits. It was very gracious of Galadriel to make peace with them. And I am most pleased that the rest of the company followed suit. That should cause some discussion in the Halls!"

"The Halls of Mandos?" Bilbo asked.

"In deed," Gandalf replied.

The fog morphed into green, and Frodo immediately fell ill to his stomach. Shadowfax must have felt the same thing, as he began to sweat and shake his head. Gandalf lifted Bilbo and Frodo from the nervous stallion and set them atop hay bales. The two hobbits and the steed moaned. It was pitiful to hear the horse's distress and see the sickly luminescent green cast to the adrenalin foam now forming on his alabaster skin.

Even the elves began to be affected by the sickly green mist. Some turned their heads and closed their eyes. A few retreated down below decks. Frodo was surprised to hear more than a few actually running to the rails and becoming throwing up. The emerald fog rolled violently in wave after wave of its own putridness, and stank.

"Twenty…fathoms…. Oh, sweet Elbereth…"

'Dead Marshes.' The thought bubbled up from deep within his suppressed memories and popped unwanted into Frodo's head. 'These are the corpses from the Dead Marshes. They have finally been released.' He gagged at the stench as something rotten floated past his bowed head. "Close your eyes, Bilbo," Frodo managed to utter through the nausea. "Do not look."

Moans and cries of sorrowful recognition arose from all around him. Frodo looked through clenched lashes to see Cirdan standing as rigid as a mast, tears streaming down his cheeks. The Elf-Lord's silver hair was stained a putrid olive and streaks of sickly jade washed over him again and again like waves casting bloated corpses upon a lonely seastrand. Frodo could not help but watch as one thickness in the mists coalesced into the form of a proud, tall male Elf clad in decomposed armor from the First Age. The wasted specter reached out its rotten and incorporeal arm to Cirdan.

'Father?'

Frodo threw up.

How long they endured the green, no one could tell. Eventually the lime fog darkened to blue and the mantra was retaken.

"Five knots steady, Captain."

"Twenty fathoms plus, Captain."

"Steady as she goes," came the reply.

Frodo found he could stand up and open his eyes again. The horror was past. Calm, serene blue descended from the sky and kissed the ocean, washing the horrible green away as a warm spring shower melts away snow. The swan ship floated within a world of tranquil blue. Peace filled the air and manifested itself in laughter upon the wind.

It sparkled with every nuance of joy Frodo had ever known. Carefree and spacious. Free from worries and hardships. Unbounded and given without reservation. Purity and innocence.

Tears suddenly started to Bilbo's eyes. He fumbled to find something in his pocket.

"What's wrong, Bilbo?" Frodo gently rubbed his cousin's shoulders.

"Children," he sniffled and brought out his handkerchief. "We are hearing the voices of dead children."

Gandalf gently knelt beside the hobbit. His face reflected the same pale blue seen in Frodo's eyes. "Not all these voices are the dead who travel to the Halls of Mandos, my friend. Some are on their journey in the other direction. To Middle Earth. To be born. Do not shed tears of sorrow; only tears of joy. Learn from them, if you can."

Bilbo nodded and quieted. Frodo hugged his beloved uncle in a tight embrace, and they sat together on top of the hay.

"Twenty fathoms steady."

"Six knots, my Captain."

"Sir! The mists are breaking!" The crewman from the crow's nest fairly shouted with joy.

Frodo noticed a faint tinge of violet mixed with the blue. He suddenly felt sleepy. Very sleepy. He could not keep his eyes open.

"Oh no you don't."

Frodo was startled awake. "What?" Gandalf was shaking him and Elrond had a bemused expression on his face.

"Uh, sorry. I do not know what came over me," Frodo stammered and stood up to shake the last bits of sleep from his brain.

"Don't feel bad," Elrond said. "Look at Shadowfax."

The Lord of All Horses was standing absolutely still, his head hanging low and brushing the hay scattered beneath him. Not even his tail moved. He was snoring. Loudly!

"Good thing the Eldar do not sleep as mortals," Elrond quietly said, and headed off to disappear below decks. The mists had faded into nothingness, and the ship was again under full sail and on course.

Galadriel smiled and reached for Bilbo's hand. "What shall we have for lunch, Mr. Baggins?" They disappeared into the ship's belly.

Cirdan remained with Frodo as everyone else wandered off. "My Lord? Are you all right?" Frodo quietly asked.

The stately elf grimly nodded.

"Did you know that shadow?" Frodo inquired.

"That was my father." Cirdan swallowed hard and sighed. "He and I went to war with the Last Alliance. I lost him outside the Black Gates. We thought he had returned to the Halls many ages ago, but nothing was ever heard from him. We did not know his spirit had been trapped in Sauron's marshes these past three thousand years. The look in his eyes! The torture of the water! Alas, my heart!"

"He is free now," Frodo quietly said, "as are all the others lost in that battle. You will see them again."

The captain went down on one knee and took the startled hobbit's hands, clasping them tightly.

"Thank you, Frodo Baggins of the Shire. Elf-friend indeed! You have returned to us those we thought lost forever. I see now it was through Sauron's destruction that the curse was finally lifted. The Eldar owe you much, Ringbearer. More than we could possibly give. What would you have me do? What can I do to show you my gratitude and thanks?"

Frodo hesitated, then steeled himself.

"You are the master shipbuilder. You know the hidden paths and secret ways of Middle Earth and of the Straight Path to the Blessed Realm. You are beloved of Osse and Ulmo. If it is within your power, please return one day to Middle Earth and bring the other Ringbearer back with you. I left Sam behind, for his time was not yet accomplished for this journey. But when his time is come, please go back and bring to me my friend."

"Frodo Baggins," Cirdan solemnly said, "I swear I shall do as you ask, even if it requires I die in petition before the Valar themselves."

"They have already granted the request." Gandalf stood beside the peacefully sleeping horse and smiled. "Sam will join you soon enough, Frodo."


	10. Day 19: The Enchanted Isles

Day Nineteen: The Enchanted Isles

"Frodo? Are you certain you wish to go through with this?" Gandalf sighed and looked at the frown playing across the determined face. "Are you certain you are up to it?" The Wizard could see shadows of persistent pain lingering in the hobbit's eyes. "You could stay below in your cabin with Bilbo. It's much safer there, you know."

"If there is any way for a mortal to experience this without being ensnared or loosing their mind, then I wish to do so." Raven curls now entwined with stray silver strands blew across the piercing blue eyes squinting into the bright rays of sunshine. Frodo refused to let the relentless pain keep him below decks in a sick bed. He had set up a small bedroll on some rope coils, and fully intended to remain above deck, no matter what anyone said.

"His plan will work," Elrond quietly replied. "It has been done before. My father also traversed these waters without succumbing."

"Your father was half Elvish, if I may remind you," Gandalf curtly replied to the Elf-lord. "And your father had Elwing with him. Frodo will have no such protection. The temptations are specifically designed to ensnare mortals. They have no effect on you or I, as we are immortals. He will be subjected to overwhelming temptations. I know how devious these illusions are. I helped create some of them."

"Which ones?" Frodo gathered a length of slender grey Elvish rope into his hands and carefully tested them. They would be strong enough.

"I think I shall make you guess which ones, you stubborn, thick-headed fool of a hobbit." The Wizard crossed his arms in irritation. "You sound more like Peregrin Took every day! Why are you pushing yourself into this? There is no need for it. All you have to do is go below decks, shutter the porthole, put cotton in your pointed ears and wait. Your Uncle Bilbo is smart enough to heed my warnings and do so. Now why can't you do the same?"

Frodo quietly handed Elrond the rope. "Because I am not he. I have little to loose should I succumb, and much to gain should I endure. No mortal has experienced this and lived, and I think my plan will allow me to do so. What do you think, Lord Elrond?"

"I think we should stop talking and get you prepared," the Elf-Lord said. "Time is of the essence. The mists are almost upon us. We cannot shield you from what occurs when the ship enters the vapor. As Gandalf has so pointedly reminded us, these enchanted isles have only one purpose: to ensnare mortals and keep them from discovering the Undying Lands."

"The Elves will not see, hear, smell, taste or feel what you experience, Frodo. For the most part, neither will I," Gandalf replied. "You will be alone in your experiences. I can stay by your side and talk with you, but you may not even recognize me once we are within the heart of the Enchanted Sea."

"I understand," Frodo quietly replied. He took a deep breath, backed up to the main mast and stretched his arms behind. "I am ready."

Lord Cirdan had ordered all except essential crew to go below decks. He commanded those who remained on deck to stuff cotton into their ears, and to avoid looking at Frodo during the passage. The captain had no desire to expose himself or his crew to the possibly of inadvertently granting an insane request brought about by passage through the Enchanted Isles. Until they were safely past the atolls and out of the mist, Frodo would be ignored by all, save for Gandalf.

Elrond quietly stepped behind the mast and placed a loop of rope about Frodo's left wrist, pulling it tight. "Exhale and hold," Elrond commanded. Frodo complied, and found that the rigging had been laced across the back of the mast and then brought tightly across his chest. He could still breathe, but there was no possibility of wiggling out of the lashings.

Elrond methodically finished binding the hobbit to the mast, making each knot secure and ensuring they were safely out of Frodo's reach. Frodo could feel smooth wood against his bound wrists and hands. The silken Elvish rope did not hurt him in his self-imposed captivity, but it was strong and implacable, binding him securely to the wood so tightly that he almost felt one with the timber. He could move his head freely, but the rest of him was immobilized. The wall of mist quickly approached as he resolutely gazed ahead.

"You had best leave now," Gandalf whispered to the Elf. Elrond briefly nodded, then quickly disappeared down the hatch.

Gandalf seated himself beside Frodo. The Wizard produced a pipe from somewhere inside his white robe and was about to light up, but thought better of it and put the pipe away. Frodo shot him an inquisitive look. "Best to not compound temptations," Gandalf quietly replied.

They entered the mists in silence and under minimal sails. Frodo could see the crewman at the prow taking careful soundings. Cirdan let the ship run with the current for the most part.

The mists felt surprisingly warm on Frodo's face and exposed neck. Like the caress of soft lips against his skin. Hundreds of soft, velvety lips against every inch of his flesh. Frodo sighed in contentment, then caught himself upon seeing Gandalf's disapproving glance.

"Sorry," Frodo murmured and blushed to his toes.

"You've only begun." Gandalf crossed his arms and waited.

Frodo could see a faint light ahead and to starboard. The air seemed to take on a golden hue, and occasional twinkles and flashes of light came from somewhere in the mist to his right. As Frodo concentrated, the sun broke through the vapor and revealed an astounding sight.

It was an island. But one made of gold, silver, mithril and precious stones. Jewels of a thousand colors and moon-white pearls lined the shoreline instead of sand. A slender golden hall stood back a little ways from a beautiful wharf constructed of the finest mallorn wood burnished until it gleamed, inlaid with exquisite mithril in complicated patterns of leaves. The roof of the golden building seemed to be made of the finest clear glass, beveled and polished until its shingles gave off rainbows in the sunlight. The doors were of mother-of-pearl; their silky opalescence shimmering with a myriad of iridescent colors within the pale ivory. Silken sacks lay scattered about the entranceway and under the porch, golden coins spilling across the ruby and sapphire inlaid tile.

As the ship past slowly to port, Frodo could see tables in a formal geometric garden behind the golden hall. They groaned under their precious burdens. Silverware and fine porcelain plates glinted and sparkled. Rich cut-glass goblets beckoned him to a feast of opulence all for the taking. Marble, alabaster and jade sculptures lined a long promenade paved in silver. Exquisite scientific instruments were displayed on gleaming alabaster pedestals; each a unique work of art in its own right.

Behind the garden Frodo could also see what appeared to be a cave cut into the side of a hill. But the fine rose quartz rock face shimmered with thick ropy veins of raw mithril. Inside the cave, encased in fragile glass tubes and storage boxes encrusted with gold and jewels, lay hundreds if not thousands of illuminated manuscripts. A library beyond his imagining. A small, hobbit-sized chair and table waited at the cave's entrance. Frodo could just make out a magnifying glass delicately balanced on the chair's armrest, and a comfortable silken quilt draped across the other arm.

'Come. Come take what you desire. It is all for you! A gift. All this is a gift freely given. There is more on the other side. So much more to explore. You will be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams! Come! You can stay and be ruler of all this! It could all be yours if you but claim it. Come! Come and see!' The whispered words filled his mind and sparkled in the air about him.

Frodo gazed at the vision, then quietly turned to resumed looking forward. The mists once again enveloped his sight and the island faded.

Gandalf was looking intently at him. "What did you see?"

"Great wealth," Frodo replied. "A land filled with precious metals and jewels and beautiful items. No people; only wealth."

"I didn't expect you to be tempted by that," Gandalf said, "but many mortals have yielded to such temptation. They confuse material wealth for happiness and become ensnared."

Frodo grinned slightly. "I must confess I was a little bit tempted by the books. But my journey is not for wealth of knowledge. I can pass this isle."

Gandalf chuckled. "Wise far beyond your race's reputation. Saruman could have learned a thing or two from you, if he had only listened. He designed the library."

"He did?"

"Along time ago. Back before we volunteered to come to Middle Earth."

Frodo licked his dry lips. "Gandalf? May I have some water? I cannot quite reach my water bottle."

A runner from the front of the ship passed them without acknowledging them, on her way back to the helm. The ship turned slightly to starboard and another runner went to the bow.

"Are you really thirsty, Frodo?"

"Yes. Of course…" Frodo began, then stopped. "Well…I think I am. Wait…." He looked to the left and saw the faint outline of another island. He was suddenly very thirsty. Extremely thirsty. And hungry. Hunger smote him like a sharp jab to the stomach. Instinctively he closed his eyes. In spite of his every intention, Frodo groaned. "Oh, stars, I'm hungry! And I am still thirsty. Gandalf, please…Some water, I beg of you."

He could hear the splash of fresh falling water from off to his left. Frodo swallowed convulsively. He was SO thirsty. Why didn't Gandalf give him some water? Frodo twisted uncomfortably against the ropes. His stomach growled in sympathy and then he smelled it. The pungent scent of beef roasting over an open flame. He could hear the sizzle as fat melted through slits in the crisp skin holding in succulent, juicy and perfectly cooked steak.

Frodo's eyes flew open. Where was that undeniable smell coming from?

The mists to his left lifted. Frodo thought Rivendell was magnificent, but even Elrond's house paled in comparison to this oasis in the ocean's dessert. The isle lifted itself straight up out of the sea, as if Frodo were only seeing the top of a very steep mountain which was anchored deep in the salty ocean. The isle was covered with a lush growth of every fruit and grain Frodo had ever tasted, and some which were unknown to him. Cascades of swiftly-flowing waterfalls tumbled from the isle's snow-capped peak. The fresh liquid was diverted and collected into bubbling pools and crystal clear rivulets overflowing directly into the glassy green sea.

Some of the delightful rivers were definitely not water. Frodo could smell complex aromas of apples, pears, peaches, nectarines, grapes, lemons, honey, lavender, sage…. Wave after wave of perfectly ripe fruits and flowers assaulted his nose.

"Oh," he groaned, "that smells so good."

"But are you truly hungry or thirsty?" A voice from somewhere on his left asked.

Frodo thought hard about the nagging question as his stomach once again protested its emptiness. He reluctantly turned his gaze back to Gandalf.

"No," he finally said. "This is an illusion. A good one too. But I know what true hunger and thirst are. I endured the parched land of Gorgoroth and the fires of Mordor. Sam and I almost died from thirst. I shall never take for granted food or drink; but I will not let them control me. I am master of my physical desires. This is not why I am on this journey. I reject this isle."

The mists swirled closed again, snuffing out the remnant of delightful scents, visions and sounds.

Gandalf nodded and brought the water bottle up to Frodo's lips. "I think you deserve this, my friend."

Frodo smiled weakly, but accepted the refreshing drink anyway. "That was rather more difficult than the first."

"They become progressively more devious," Gandalf said. "Are you certain you wish to continue?"

"I am."

------------------

A.N. Please, please, please leave a review. You know you want to.


	11. Day 19 cont: Isle of Sweet Release

Day 19 continued "Isle of Sweet Release"

Chapter Rating: R (be warned….sexual references of all sorts)

"Gandalf? I have not seen anything for quite a few minutes. Have we already passed through the Enchanted Isles?" Frodo looked left and right, then peered straight ahead, trying to will the swirling mist to part revealing clean, untroubled seas.

"We have not left the Enchanted Seas," the wizard quietly replied. "We are in the middle of the isles. Cirdan has managed to steer clear of several. Yet we might encounter more before passing through and beyond the enchantment."

"Such as…?" Frodo asked.

Gandalf looked down, clearly embarrassed, and remained silent as the mists swirled and thickened about the ship.

The muted grey fog was warm and strangely comforting. Frodo sighed and closed his eyes to better enjoy the relaxed feeling. A breeze from starboard fluttered soft as butterfly wings against his thick dark lashes. A familiar slightly mysterious floral scent drifted above the salt sea smells and into his consciousness.

'Annadara Chubb,' he suddenly thought. A pleasant memory of a lover from his late twenties. She and he were in his bedroom at Bag End one afternoon while Bilbo was conveniently away on business. She had reached through the open window and plucked a creamy white flower from the glossy forest green bush, bringing the fragrant blossom to him as he lay spent after making love. She languidly brushed the velvet flower across his closed eyes before climbing atop his prostrate form to melt into his heavy arms. 'Jasmine,' his thoughts continued. 'It was in bloom.' He smiled. 'Sam's Gaffer planted that bush the year I came to stay with Bilbo.'

Frodo opened his eyes, halfway expecting to see a jasmine bush planted in a bucket next to the mast. He was disappointed to see nothing except the soft grey mist. But the memory of that languid afternoon of youthful love lingered in the perfumed air.

He could swear the ever-present sensation of feather-light kisses intensified slightly. The kisses became more…ah…personal, and very, very distracting. The music of harps drifted in upon the soft, warm perfume impregnated breeze. Sensual, relaxing, enchanting music. The ship seemed to move more slowly, as if it too were remembering luscious times of lazy afternoon liaisons and didn't want them to end. Time itself almost stood still in the warm, sweet molasses of fog and water; music and perfume.

Another smell welled up beneath the floral – a more earthy, vibrant and essential smell. The smell of flesh ripe for love-making. Salty-sweet moisture and heat and primordial essence which propels the body and mind towards ecstasy.

"No," Frodo breathed out towards Gandalf. "Not…Oh, surely the Valar would not do this?"

"The Maia," the Wizard cleared his throat. "Tulkas' Maia designed this one…." Gandalf's voice faded and then vanished into the mist, along with his body.

Frodo's eyes were drawn to the right as another isle slowly revealed itself through the thick velvety clouds. The vapor slowly flowed from the isle and enveloped Gandalf, the ship and the rest of the world, leaving a clear path between Frodo and the gentle slope of a pearly white sand beach. Frodo could no longer sense any portion of the swan ship, save the smooth wood of the mast to which he was bound and the wooden deck upon which he stood.

He felt as if he were being pulled along inside dream. Time and motion melted until even the persistent rhythm of waves against the shore synchronized with the tempo of his strong heartbeat, and the pulses became one.

Frodo first noticed the tall young red-headed woman sauntering slowly down from a rocky garden path to the beach. She was staring directly at him, dressed in a thin, clingy transparent green robe which flowed about her athletic body. As the dress was sleeveless and gathered at the waist with white ribbons, Frodo could not help but see every ounce of her graceful form. He couldn't take his eyes off her. She was back-lighted, making the garment seem as if it were only the suggestion of clothing, revealing every curve of her lithesome limbs and graceful breasts. Some trick of reflected sunlight upon the white sand also lighted her from in front. Frodo gulped and forced his eyes closed. 'My stars!' he thought, 'she's even a redhead down there!' He could feel himself blushing from his knees up to the top of his head, with a full flush seeming to lodge itself directly in his groin.

'Oh, this will not do,' he thought. 'Must maintain control….'

"Fro…do…."

A husky musical alto voice floated across the musky breeze. She was the voice of sex.

"Fro…do…. We are so happy you have finally arrived."

He could not help himself. He had to see.

A couple more beautiful young women had joined the redhead on the beach. They stood with arms interlocked about each other's perfect waists, gently swaying to the rhythm of his thumping heart. He was embarrassed as he realized his erection was growing, despite his attempt to maintain control.

The lass to the redhead's right was a curvaceous goddess with suntanned rosy skin and soft, relaxed curls so golden they almost flamed in the sunshine. Her breasts were full and rose-tipped, and her ample hips beckoned him. The female on the left was slightly shorter than her sisters, and was a dark, sultry beauty with glossy chestnut hair falling in waves to her buttocks. She smiled and pearly white teeth flashed from a blood-red generous mouth.

Frodo's mouth opened in amazement at their beauty. He couldn't really tell if any of them had on any clothing or not. 'Oh, my!' His groin tightened and swelled in appreciation of the vision. Frodo quickly closed his eyes and tried to slow his ever-increasing breathing. 'Math!' he thought. 'I need to control myself. Oh, stars! Do some math. That's what Bilbo always told me to do. Think of multiplication tables. That will take your mind off of…of….'

"Come to us, Fro…do…" they sang in sweet harmony. Frodo could hear the harp music intensifying into a mesmerizing lay of sweetness and tranquility. "Come to us, Fro…do…. We've waited for you. We are yours. We are only here for you. Come to us, Fro…do…. Come!"

He heard a splash. Any thoughts of math flew crashing out of his head as quick as a summer hailstorm. Another brunette was wading into the ocean, thigh-deep in the water, coming towards the ship, which seemed to have stopped its forward motion altogether. Once she knew she had Frodo's attention, she quickly dipped down into a wave, then stood up. The gossamer white dress she was wearing instantly became a second, transparent skin, clinging to her small breasts and accentuating her hourglass figure. Her wet locks clung to her torso like vines clinging to a statue, accentuating her strong shoulders and narrow waist. Frodo could see right through the wet fabric, and his breath caught in a sudden tight lump of lust in his throat. She stood in the waves, her legs slightly spread and her arms open towards him. "Fro…do…. Come to me. I've been waiting for you for so long. I am here for you. Only you." She licked her perfect crimson lips and smiled with temptation and lust.

He could now see others coming down to the beach. There were many different people on this isle; females, males, and some who could not be classified so simply. All unique. All healthy and strong and young. All stunningly beautiful. Some were alone. Some had formed couples; their arms interlocked and playfully caressing their mate while gazing at the Ringbearer. He was slightly startled to see a couple of females equally flirting with themselves and with him.

"We have whatever you desire, Fro…do…. What ever you desire." The redhead called to him. "There is no right or wrong here. There is only love and acceptance. Beauty and music. Peace and rest. You have experienced these before. We understand and believe. Come! Come to us and experience love again! What you had in Middle Earth pales in comparison to what we offer. You may have any of us; any way you wish."

"Any of us…" the blonde echoed.

"Any of us…" the two young women sang and then kissed each other; their hands exploring the curves of their hips and reaching around to grasp a firm buttock.

"Any of us…" a baritone voice sang. Frodo noticed a couple of handsome young men with their arms entwined. The taller of the two smiled at Frodo, then turned and kissed his lover full on the mouth. "We can teach you the myriad ways of love, Fro…do…."

"Come join us, Fro…do…." A trio of a golden-haired female and two dark men smiled and waved at him. "You may have whatever you desire!"

"Gandalf!" No reply. Frodo looked wildly around for the wizard, but could only see fog. He was loosing control of his body with the visual stimulation and the continuous invisible kisses.

He heard another splash. Looking at the sparkling water, he could see the red-head and the dark brunette swimming towards the ship. Their strokes were long and strong. They would soon reach the side of the vessel.

"No," he mumbled through ragged breaths. He swallowed and tried to calm himself as a pair of dusky brown hands appeared on the starboard rail. He struggled against the ropes binding him to the mast, but the Elvish cords held him fast. "Gandalf!" Frodo desperately looked to his left, where the wizard should have been, but saw nothing except the thick milky fog.

"There is no need for anyone else, Fro…do…"

A soft, wet hand caressed his right cheek, and he turned to find himself staring into a pair of liquid green eyes.

"We can supply everything your heart and body require," the red-head purred into his ear. She leaned her perfect body against his bound chest, and gently kissed his mouth, lingering on his lower lip just enough to show him that she knew exactly how to please a man. Her hands rested upon his chest, gently caressing his tight muscles. Frodo felt his manhood rising again, and closed his eyes in a vain hope to resist the temptress.

Another pair of hands found his ear tips. A wet tongue flicked along the side of his exposed neck, sending shivers of desire and anticipation down his spine, lodging in his tightening groin.

"Please…" he stammered, trying to clear his throat. "Please…don't," he whispered, trying again to free his restrained hands. The ropes held tight.

The hands continued to trace patterns of desire upon his face, neck and torso. "Why not?" the silky voice practically panted into his ear. "Is this not pleasant? You have known love before. You may have it again. We will do whatever it is you desire. Don't you want to?"

Before he could answer, ripe lips closed upon his, and a hot tongue teased itself inside his suddenly willing mouth. She tasted of cinnamon and ripe cherries. Hands worked their way down his sides and towards…

"No!" He panted as his eyes flew open in panic. "Stop! What you are doing is wrong!"

The hands hesitated. "We love you," the red-head crooned into his mouth. She was inches from his flush face. "We can tell you are able to love us back. Why is this wrong? You desire it. I can taste your desire. I can smell your yearning. Your own heartbeat gives you away. How can this be wrong?"

"Because it is against my will," Frodo cried. "I am bound and cannot defend myself. You will devour me. What you are doing is…is rape. Please. Oh, please…stop. I beg you. Stop."

The two females backed away slightly. The brunette turned towards the shoreline, then back. "We must hurry," she whispered to the red-head.

"I can release your bonds, if you but give the word," the red-head said. She held Frodo's head in her milk-white hands and gently kissed him again, trailing her lips from his lips to below his left ear. "One word," she whispered. "Say 'yes' and I will free you to join us forever. Love and peace and beauty. Is not this desire in your heart?"

"No," he quietly replied into her jasmine-scented curls.

"We must leave now," the brunette emphatically said. She quickly kissed Frodo's cheek, then ran to the starboard rail and dove into the dark blue sea. The red-head stepped back from the hobbit, one perfect tear descending her rosy cheek. "I shall miss you, Fro…do…." She also turned, ran to the railing, and dove overboard.

The last thing Frodo saw of the isle before the mists closed in again, was the entire population standing waist-deep in the surf, stopped at some invisible barrier about 100 meters from the white sand beachfront, and the two women reluctantly swimming back to shore. Each person's face mirrored the same, sad, unfulfilled longing he felt within his loins and his heart.

A fresh breeze blew the perfumed fog away, revealing the swan ship. Gandalf was again beside him.

"Why didn't you help me, Gandalf?" Frodo whispered.

"I am not permitted to interfere with the designs of these enchanted isles," Gandalf replied. "I must let them run their course, regardless of what you say, or if you beg or scream or faint or even loose your bonds and abandon the ship. I warned you before you decided to attempt this, Frodo. Now, you must finish what you have begun, no matter what you experience."

"Are there many more isles to go?" Frodo asked.

"Only one," Gandalf replied. "Only one. And I cannot help you through that one either. I can stuff cotton in your ears and place a hood over your head so that you do not see or hear the last temptation. We have only a little time, but I could do this for you. What is your decision?"

Frodo thought about the offer for a moment. "No. I will see this thing through to the end. But thank you, Gandalf. I am grateful for the offer."

"You hobbits are certainly made of sturdy stuff," the wizard smiled, then turned serious. "Frodo, no matter what happens next, I will not experience whatever it is you are experiencing. You will be alone. Only you will know how you deal with the final test."


	12. Day 19 cont: Past Future

Day 19 (cont.) "Past Future"

A.N. Sorry about the delay in posting this chapter. It was as difficult for me to write as it was for Frodo to endure. Hope you enjoy it. Please leave a review. ...Tulip

The silvery swan ship slipped silently out of the mist and into a flat empty sea. Thin bands of high filmy clouds crisscrossed overhead in the sparkling air. Frodo ducked his head in an attempt to be out of the way of the Elvish crew as they silently climbed high into the rigging and unfurled all sails. A slight breeze caught the bright embroidered canvas, and the ship gained enough speed to cause small, frothy wakes to break at the prow and a glistening iridescent wake to form behind.

"Are we through the enchanted seas now, Gandalf?" Frodo twisted against his silken bindings. He had been standing, lashed to the sturdy main mast for what seemed like hours and hours. The bright Western sunshine and calm seas after such a long time in the dense warm fog was a blessed relief.

"I cannot tell for certain," the wizard enigmatically replied, "but I do not wish to take any chances. You will remain as you are."

"But there is absolutely nothing around for miles and miles," Frodo protested. "I cannot even see the isles behind. Please untie me for a little while so I might stretch my legs. I have been standing for a very long time, and…truth be told…I really could use a pee break."

Gandalf chuckled slightly but shook his head. "No, Frodo Baggins. I will not release you from your bindings yet. I expected you to ask for this sooner. I do not mean to sound cruel, but I will not untie you until I am positive we have left the Enchanted Seas."

Frodo sighed and resigned himself to another hour of discomfort. He decided to concentrate on the blood-red luminous orb, which was rapidly moving towards the western horizon. Beautiful sunset clouds gathered round the disk in layers of vibrant colors: purples, lavenders, pale sage greens, pinks and striking golds against the cyan sky.

Frodo watched the brilliant sunset for quite a few minutes before he noticed a sound he had not heard in weeks. "Gandalf! Listen! Gulls! There must be land ahead."

The wizard said nothing, but looked up into the sky. Frodo's heart beat stronger in anticipation as the gulls circled the ship, then formed a noisy entourage behind the stern, diving into the slight wake and bringing up bright silver fish.

Shortly afterwards, an isle appeared slightly to the North of the sinking sun. The water before reflected a golden path towards the isle.

"Gandalf? Is that Tol Eressea?" Frodo asked.

"I do not know, Frodo," the wizard replied. "It might be, if we have indeed passed through the Enchanted Sea."

Within thirty minutes the ship had reached the eastern-most tip of the isle. Runners from the Captain caused a flurry of activity, as the main and top sails were furled and the ship's speed slowed in order to safely navigate around the rocky shoals and occasional sandbars visible in the warm sunset seas. Small floating buoys with clanging sea-bells sang their warning of underwater dangers.

"People must live here," Frodo said.

"Indeed," Gandalf replied.

Frodo could see lush green mountains falling into deep fiords. Many sparkling waterfalls tumbled and cascaded into the sea from unseen streams and rivers whose origins could not readily be seen due to the lush undergrowth and tangled vines. Curly rust fern heads sprouted from massive trunks as the ship slowly passed a section of land supporting fern-trees and flowering forest floor bushes. Butterflies of velvet black, spotted orange, vibrant yellow and borealis blue flitted through the crystalline air.

As the ship quietly slipped through the waters, massive woodlands gave way to rolling hills of golden grass. Grey, black and white-fleeced sheep grazed contentedly upon the slopes until they caught sight of the ship; at which they turned and bolted back into the inland countryside. Wild herds of deer, the fawn's spotted coats shimmering in the light, occasionally were visible when forest edge met grassy meadow. Gradually, the hillsides descended into pastures with neatly manicured hedgerows and rustic wooden step gates.

"Gandalf?" Frodo could hardly turn his eyes from the intriguingly familiar shoreline. It seemed so familiar, yet so unfamiliar. As if he had dreamed this landscape for years and years. "Is…is this Tol Eressea? It must be. I've dreamed of this place."

Gandalf looked intently at the large verdant island, but remained silent.

Frodo was about to say something, when he heard a voice on the wind. The ship was rounding a peninsula, turning slightly North. "Do you hear that?" Frodo could not make out the words, but it definitely was a voice intermixed with the gull cries.

"What do you hear?" Gandalf asked.

"People," Frodo replied. "And music. I hear music. Fiddle music. It…. Wait. That sounds like Shandy's tavern band." Frodo frowned slightly. "This can not be right. I mean, that sounds like a fiddle and dumbac and bass. I did not think Tol Eressea would have hobbit music. Or would it, Gandalf?"

"I hear nothing, Frodo," Gandalf said.

"Look! We've reached it!" If he were not restrained, Frodo would have run to the side rail for a better view. "There are people! There are hobbits!" The music was now predominate over the call of the seabirds. As the ship rounded a sand spit, neat orchards and small gardens came into view. He could see a few hobbits working in the lush fields and walking down cobblestone roads. As the island's populace caught sight of the Elvish swan ship, the hobbits pointed, dropped their work and started running towards a small town which came into view.

The town was a neat, tidy village beside a small, clear lake connected to a tiny bay by way of a tree-lined river. Thatched low-hanging roofs above familiar round doors and windows defined the houses outlining a communal market. Typical hobbit smials dug into gently rising hillsides could be seen nestled into copes and hilltops framing the little town and facing the placid lake and marketplace. There was even a stone mill and arched bridge connecting the lake with the small river running down to the sea.

"This can't be," Frodo stammered.

"Tell me what you see, Frodo," Gandalf quietly prompted.

"My stars," Frodo whispered, "it's Hobbiton." He strained against the ropes to get a better view. "The Shire of my past. The Shire the way it should have been."

The hobbits gathered into the town market, staring at the ship and pointing.

"Look! An Elf ship!" Frodo could hear one small child's voice above the general talking. "Look, Mamma. Isn't it pretty? Are there real Elves on it?"

"Of course. See? There are Elves up in the sails."

Something was in his eyes. Frodo abruptly realized he was crying. Waves of homesickness overcame him as he took in what was presented to him. This was his home. His Shire. But somehow untouched by the evil inflicted upon it by Saruman or the Ring. This shire was beautiful and unspoiled. Every hobbit he could see was clean and healthy. There were many joyful children running about, clapping their tiny hands in delight at seeing the great grey ship gliding past their Hobbiton.

"Look, Mommy! A swan!" A tiny brown-haired lass jumped up and down, waving her hands in spasmodic excitement.

"Yes, dearest. Isn't it grand?" The girl's mother took her hand and started walking towards a wooden jetty in the little bay. "Maybe they will stop and visit."

With a start, Frodo recognized the lady. It was Lidia Chiswell, the Hobbiton seamstress. The lass was little Penny, her youngest. Frodo suddenly recognized all the people gathered in the marketplace. He could pick them out either by sight or by their voice. There was Shandy Merryweather coming out of the Green Dragon Inn, fiddle in one hand and a beer mug in the other. Chas Limekiln, the proprietor also came out, wiping his hands on his apron and waving in Frodo's direction. Old Mayor Will Whitfoot stood next to Mrs. Smallburrows and her fish cart. Tom Cotton was coming in from a field, driving a cart load of cabbages. Mr. Hornblower was sitting (as usual) outside his baker's shop, fanning himself in the sunset's final rays. Many of the people had their hands up, shading their eyes as they peered into the Western sun, trying to make out details of the ship going past.

"Look! It's Frodo! Frodo Baggins! He's on that boat!"

Frodo turned to see Fredigar Bolger standing on the wharf and pointing towards him.

"Fatty?"

"Ho, Frodo!" the aptly nicknamed hobbit called back, waving wildly. "What are you doing on that bloody great boat?"

Frodo couldn't reply immediately, for a tremendous lump had suddenly become lodged in his throat. Fatty looked so normal and, well, fat. Not the skinny starved Frederic of the Shire after its scouring by Saruman. In fact, all the hobbits looked in perfect health and in perfect harmony with their surroundings.

"Frodo Baggins! Are you being held against your will?" Mayor Whitfoot called out, as he and several more Hobbiton citizens joined Fatty Bolger on the wharf. "We can send a team to rescue you if you are." The Mayor looked concerned and was gesturing for Hef Smallburrows to untie his boat.

"No, your honor," Frodo called out. "I am fine, thank you."

"Then come home, Mr. Baggins," the Mayor yelled back. "You've been gone far too long. We have all been waiting for you."

"The Mayor's right, Frodo," Fatty joined in. "It's time to come home."

Frodo sadly shook his head.

The ship slowly drifted past the village. Frodo couldn't help but name it Hobbiton, for truly it was the Hobbiton of his heart. The townsfolk followed the ship's passage as best they could along the main town road, but stopped at the edge of the village. A well-tended stone road lined with tall, lush chestnuts and trim heath hedges in yellow blossom paralleled the ship's progress. Several children ran along the road, yelling questions at Frodo which he could not answer. The children skipped and laughed, waving wildly at the ship and tossing flowers and handfulls of grass in its general direction. Older hobbits emerged from neat smials along the roadway and smiled.

"Oh no," Frodo murmured, as he recognized the familiar tree-lined zigzag turns leading up into low hills. "Bag Shot Row." He dreaded what might happen. "Surely not," Frodo begged, and looked at Gandalf, who was as a stone beside him.

Frodo returned his gaze to the hillside, and saw a golden-haired lass of about age four get up from sitting under an apple tree playing with a rag doll. She ran to the cheerful yellow door of the lowest smial on the lane. Her simple blue frock caught upon a red rose bush planted next to the entranceway. She impatiently tugged it free and disappeared inside. "Mummie! Daddy!"

Then it happened.

The door to Bag Shot Row #3 opened and out stepped Samwise Gamgee. Frodo could see Sam on the doorstep, peering anxiously out at the Elf-ship. Their eyes locked across the surprisingly short distance; clear hazel to sky-blue. Frodo thought his heart would stop beating as Sam broke into a beatific smile. The golden-haired girl pulled Rosie Cotton outside the smial. Rose was holding a dark-haired infant in her arms.

"Look, Mom! It's the ship with Mr. Frodo from Dad's stories." Her voice carried so well in the clear air it was as if she were standing at Frodo's feet.

Sam's Gaffer followed to complete the little family. Even the Gaffer was hale and healthy; not bent with age and woe as the last time Frodo saw him.

The ship's progress had slowed to a crawl, despite the constant fresh breeze blowing towards land. The sun had set, but Frodo could see quite clearly in the fading light.

"Sam? Rose?" Frodo could remain silent no longer.

"It's great to see you, Mr. Frodo," Sam said with all the love Frodo had ever known wrapped up in those simple, honest words. "What are you doin' still on the boat? You're supposed to come on home now. Me and me Gaffer got Bag End all ready for you."

"That's right, Mr. Frodo," the Gaffer added. Pride in his accomplishment radiated from his being. "Everything's ready for you. Everyone's waiting."

"You can come to us right now," Sam added. "It's not a far swim from your boat to the shore. I know you can swim. It's no more than a hundred yards or so. Come on. You need to come home now."

"Don't worry about bringing anything with you," Rose called out. "We've got everything you need already up at Bag End." She turned and bounced the baby on her hip. He rewarded her with a delightful giggle.

"Mommy? Is Uncle Fro going to go home now?" the little golden-haired girl tugged on her mother's brown skirt, kicking some loose pebbles with her bare feet.

"Yes, Elanor," Rose replied. "He's coming home at last."

Frodo swallowed another lump in his throat. 'It would be so easy,' he thought. 'They look so happy. So carefree.'

He turned to Gandalf. "How is this possible?" Frodo strained against the ropes to get a better view of the group.

"Ask."

Frodo thought about it for a moment. 'Sam will tell me the truth,' he decided. Sam had never lied to anyone. "Sam!" Frodo called out. "Why are you at #3 and not at Bag End?"

"Cause this ain't the same Shire you left," Sam replied. "We aren't in Middle Earth no more. This is the Shire the way it was supposed to be. The way it would be if none of that awful stuff had happened. This Shire was made for you and me." Sam smiled and opened his arms wide. "Come on, Mr. Frodo. I decided to stay, and I have everything I ever wanted. This…this is where you belong. This is what you really want, isn't it?"

A trickle of a tear coursed down Frodo's cheek.

"This is the life we were supposed to live," Sam hugged Rose to himself. "I found it. You can have it too. But I can't carry you this time. You have to do this for yourself. All you have to do is come ashore. Then everything will be perfect. We're all waiting for you."

"That's right, Master Baggins," the Gaffer said. "Yer folk are awaitin' fer ye too."

"My folk?" Frodo asked.

"That's right, Mr. Frodo," Rosie said. "Your folk are all up at Bag End. See?" She pointed up the road towards the familiar large tree and multiple round windows and doors at the top of the hill. Tall sunflowers, colorful snapdragons and a riot of asters and sweet baby's breath lined the flagstone stairs past the old white-washed wooden gate leading up to the main entrance.

Frodo saw two people standing just outside Bag End's circular green door. He strained against the ropes to get a better view of the elderly couple. They looked familiar, yet….

"Oh, sweet Elbereth, it…it can't be." Frodo's mouth hung open in surprise. He gulped. "Mother? Father?" he whispered. It was his parents, but not as he remembered them. It was as if they had not died, but continued to age normally. They appeared as normal, healthy well-to-do hobbits in late middle age.

Primula smiled and slipped her arm about her husband's waist. She waved. "Oh, Frodo, it's been such a long time. We're so happy you've finally come home." She tucked away a stray curl of greying brown hair which had come loose in the gentle breeze.

Drogo Baggins was fairly bursting with pride. Frodo was certain the brass buttons of his rich green waistcoat would pop off. Drogo pulled the long-stemmed wooden pipe from his lips and curls of pearly smoke drifted across the intervening space. Longbottom Leaf mixed with a hint of Brandywine Best; his father's favorite smoke.

"My boy!" Drogo boomed. "Welcome home. Your mother and I have kept everything ready for you." He turned to his wife. "Mother? Where's …"

"I'm here," a gentle alto voice interrupted.

She stepped out from behind the green door and joined his parents on the stoop of his home. Frodo had never seen her before in the Shire, but he knew her intimately. She was always in his dreams. The lass with hair the same as his, and eyes of deepest midnight black. She wore a dress of dusty dark blue. Golden ribbons controlled her lush raven tresses. As she turned slightly, Frodo's heart leapt to his throat.

She was in the final month of pregnancy. She rested her milk-white hands across her swollen belly and smiled.

"The baby's really kicking. He wants to see his father. It won't be long now. Mistress Hornblower says it's this week for certain, but Rosie and I think next week. I'm so happy you've arrived in time."

Hot tears of love, longing and frustration coursed down Frodo's flushed cheeks. He twisted against the Elvish bindings in an effort to free himself, hardly noticing the blood trickling into his fists as the ropes sliced into his wrists. He was going to be a father!

"Yes!" he cried into the salty sea wind. "Yes! This is what I truly want! Gandalf. Gandalf, please, let me go!"

"What is it you want, Frodo?" the wizard softly asked.

"Can't you see? Can't you hear? It's my life over there! The way it was supposed to be. A normal, healthy life." He was shuttering uncontrollably now; pent-up emotions spewing forth in a hot torrent of inner turmoil.

"Normal! That's all I wanted to be. Normal! Like everyone else. Like Fatty. Like Sam! Like my father. I didn't want to be the Ringbearer. I didn't ask to be a hero. I only wanted to be normal. I was always the different one. Always the loner. Queer Baggins, they called me. They laughed at me and Bilbo because we had different friends like you and the dwarves; because we read the old Elvish languages and liked books; because we cared. I only wanted to be normal.

"Well, I don't want to care anymore. I want to be numb. I want to be left alone by the powers of the world. I want to be like everyone else and just live a normal life!"

Frodo turned to Gandalf. "Look. It's there for me. Sam said it was made for him and me. And I want it. I want my parents alive again. I want to be married and raise a family. I want to re-live my life like everyone else. She's there. I'm going to be a father! I want to be a father! I want the Shire again. Look! Look, Gandalf! It's there! I can have that. I need that. Please, please release me. Let me go to them."

Gandalf sighed. "Frodo, I cannot see what you are experiencing. But remind me. What happens to you in your dream when you try to return to Middle Earth?"

"What?" Frodo was disturbed by the wizard's seemingly nonsensical question. "What does my dream have to do with this? This is my Tol Eressea. This is how I am healed." Frodo was beside himself with longing and a strong, overwhelming desire to break his bonds, leap off the ship and swim to shore.

The trio at the Bag End reached out their arms to him, beckoning him towards their love. The beautiful dark-haired lass cradled her enormous belly. "Your baby needs his father, Frodo," she called.

"Mr. Frodo's right, Mr. Gandalf, sir," Sam called out. "Come on, Mr. Frodo. Come to us now. There's not much time left, sir. You know I would come get you, if I could, but I can't. You have to swim to us. I know you can do it. I did it. You can too. Come on." There was a sense of urgency in Sam's strong voice. The ship was slowly, but surely pulling away from the isle.

Frodo suddenly stopped straining at the ropes. Something Sam said didn't quite ring true. The doubt which Gandalf had planted took hold.

"Sam?" Frodo said, uncertainly, "What did you just say?"

"I said 'Come on,'" Sam yelled. "I did it. You have to do it too."

Frodo sagged back against the wooden mast. "You couldn't have done this, Sam," he whispered. "You can't swim."

With one last, longing look at Bag End and the lass who carried his child, he said, "…and I don't even know your name. I'm sorry Mother. Father. I'm so sorry Sam. As much as I desire to, I cannot change what I am. I cannot undo the past. I cannot come home."

The isle slipped into a soft lilac twilight mist which seemed to have been poised just off the ship's rail. Dusk settled upon the ocean as the swan ship's sails filled and left the isle behind. The gulls circled the ship one last time, then departed into the twilight dark, their cries muffled into a lonely wail, then silence.

Within a few minutes the Elvish crew had removed the cotton from their ears and had released the other passengers who had remained below decks during their passage through the Enchanted Isles.

Gandalf cut the bonds binding Frodo to the mast, and he sank exhausted into the wizards arms. Lord Elrond appeared and bound Frodo's wounds with soft white cloths while the hobbit sniffed back his tears. A worried Bilbo appeared with a glass of sparkling wine, which Frodo gratefully drank.

"I wish you hadn't elected to subject yourself to that," Gandalf whispered, "but you acquitted yourself bravely."

"You designed the last trial, didn't you?" Frodo sniffed. "That was almost more than I could bear."

"Yes, I helped design that last isle," Gandalf said. "But it was mostly the work of my mentor in Valinor. The isle senses your inmost, deepest held emotional desire never spoken aloud, and presents it to you. I am curious though, Frodo. Could you describe the lady you said was the wife of your dreams?"

"She has dark hair like mine, and eyes jet black with the stars in them," Frodo bowed his head. "Pale skin, yet her hands are callused and her arms are strong. When she speaks, it is always words of encouragement. I have seen her in my dreams all my life, but I do not know her name. She always comes to me when I am in despair."

"Her name is Nienna," Gandalf replied. "The Valar of pity and endurance beyond hope. My mentor. You have always been beloved by her. Perhaps you will meet her in Tol Eressea."


End file.
